


Sonnet X

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22186729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Several deep breaths later and his mind sunk gratefully into its meditative state. Time passed. The water lost some of its scalding heat. His senses stretched languorously through the inn. The scent of the soap and salts in the water; the sound of murmured conversations in the adjacent room and the muffled squeaks of mice in the rafters…The loud, abrasive clank of tin drink containers and wooden door as Jaskier fell through it.Geralt opened one amber eye. He followed Jaskier as he stumbled across the room; he only managed enough coordination to carefully set his lute atop a cabinet. Moments later, the bard pushed one of the flagons he had carried from the bar into his hand. Geralt shuffled in the bath to sit up. “Locals not entertaining enough for you?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 221
Kudos: 1129
Collections: Best Geralt





	1. Chapter 1

They had been walking for days now. Their direction felt listless. Geralt’s last big pay day had been the Ekhidna terrorising a local fishing village. Half-woman, half-snake, Jaskier almost pissed himself in fear the first time it reared up from the water and screeched into Geralt’s face. 

Jaskier had hidden with Roach at a safe distance, pretending to himself that the horse needed his comfort, when really, he hadn’t been courageous enough to challenge Geralt’s commands to stay well clear. Eyes blackened by one of his many concoctions, the Witcher clipped her wings with a well-aimed crossbow bolt and sliced through her hide with his silver blade, runes flaring purple as they left behind acid burns. Breathing heavily and covered in gore, he had dragged the head back to his contractor. The walk, he said later, allowed his eyes to return to normal and the purple rivets under his pale skin to fade; the locals would have run for the hills had they seen him immediately post-combat. The pay day had been good.

But now, that felt like months ago, _years_ ago. Jaskier longed for a comfortable bed and long draught of beer. Maybe even wine. Geralt, predictably, expressed no such discomfort.

As time went on, Jaskier was learning clever ways to coax more than just grunts of affirmation or dismissal from his companion. It was, of course, an ongoing project. The subject of Yennefer had obviously run its course and only elicited frosty glares; he was loath to discuss his time at Kaer Morhen and Jaskier didn’t want to tread the well-worn – and quite frankly rather cliché – path of discussing the origins of each scar and blemish. No. The best way to get Geralt of Rivia to talk at any great length? Well, it was quite simple really.

“So, explain to me again… how is a Kikimora warrior _different_ to a Kikimora _worker_?” Jaskier asked, his question only briefly interrupted as his left foot dropped down yet another pothole in the road. So much for Nilfgaardian order and discipline. Couldn’t even maintain their roads properly.

Geralt walked several more paces without answering, not because he grew impatient with Jaskier’s questions, but rather to draw Roach’s nose down towards a small stream trickling through the shrubs at the edge of their path.

“The workers are cautious, industrious and less hostile. Most numerous, they work to feed the colony… I have pulled many a partly digested scholar from a kikimora worker. For some reason they attract admiration from the allegedly more educated.” 

Geralt allowed Roach’s reins to drop as he moved around her side, tugging carefully at the straps that secured his saddle and bags.

Jaskier listened, rapt. It wasn’t so much the subject content – he could have returned to Oxenfurt and nosed through the library for a book on monsters and mayhem – but when Geralt spoke in those gravelly tones, Jaskier could picture the battle in his mind’s eye. Silver sword glinting in the moonlight as it liberated the beast of its limbs and its life. And you probably wouldn’t read about the masticated professors in Master Dorregaray’s ‘Wonderful World of Insectoids’ either. The perfect imagery for his next heroic ballad. 

“During my studies at Oxenfurt, I did oft hear my seniors comment on potential links between the working classes and the hive-minded beasts that roamed the wilds; they believed perhaps there was some way to use their venom, or their blood, to influence the masses… quite distasteful really,” Jaskier adjusted the lute strung across his back. “And the warriors?”

“Bigger, more armoured, more aggressive… usually escorted by a handful of workers,” Geralt pulled a water skin from one of Roach’s packs and passed it to Jaskier, before kneeling down in the dust to fill his own from the water flowing before the horse’s nose, “but if you really want to eradicate a nest, you need to find their queen. And she’s always a right bi—”

The Witcher turned to face Jaskier as he spoke, but cut off when he saw the wide, doe-eyed expression on his face. A flick of amber eyes skyward informed the bard he had been rumbled, and Geralt took Roach’s reins to continue walking.

“And what about endrega, are they--?”

“Jaskier.”

“You know, you should write a book. It would be so much more interesting than currently available volumes. You could call it… I don’t know… Magnificent Beasts and Where to Find Them? Hmm. Doesn’t quite have the right ring to it yet, but it’s a start. You could have illustrations and--.”

“Jaskier. Enough. If you keep talking, I’ll tie you to a tree and leave you out for the Foglets.”

“Right.”

_Blessed silence._

* * *

“Gods be praised, Geralt! An inn!” Jaskier bounded past and barrelled through the front door. By the time Geralt had ensured Roach had access to fresh hay and water, removed the packs from her back and peered curiously at the notice board propped next to the stable, Jaskier had already downed his first tankard of mulled wine.

“Geralt! Over here,” the Witcher ducked into the dimly lit interior, pupils dilating swiftly to accommodate the lower light. Jaskier was waving at him enthusiastically from the bar. “We’re in luck. One room left.” The rafters hung low and Geralt had to stoop beneath some dried hops hung from one as he approached.

“We need to keep moving. Eat. Drink. You have an hour.”

Geralt was scoping the room. He caught the eye of a few craggy faces who quickly turned to look back into their drink. _Not welcome, but too cowardly to let him know._

Jaskier pouted, lower lip jutting briefly before he contained himself. “Now, Geralt. We’ve been travelling for days… _weeks_ even. One night. Just one night, hot meal, hot bath, warm bed.”

The Witcher pressed his lips tightly together. They hadn’t rested properly since the Ekhinda kill. It had been closer fought than Geralt would have liked, and his resolute march back to the village had been more about calming the adrenalin and chastising himself for his poor form than allowing the potions to clear his system. _What would Vesemir have said?_

Under a roof, with a fire crackling in the hearth nearby, Geralt became aware of the aches in his back and legs. Jaskier too looked paler than usual, dark circles hinting beneath his eyes and a subtle sag to his shoulders. Geralt could soldier on, but the bard… the bard needed a good night’s sleep. Amber eyes glowered down at Jaskier for what seemed like an eternity, before… “Fine,” he grated out, “But you’re paying.”

Jaskier punched the air triumphantly behind Geralt’s back as he walked past. The sun was setting rapidly and as the thought of a comfortable bed cemented itself in Geralt’s mind, he decided against weathering any more contemptuous stares from the other clientele. Tired, increasingly irritable, “Key.” He held his hand out to the barkeep, who quickly placed a large brass key against his palm.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll see you later then,” Jaskier watched that broad back retreat wistfully, the side of his chin pressed against the heel of his hand. “For shame deny that thou bear’st love to any, who for thyself art so unprovident.” 

“What?” The barkeep eyeballed him curiously.

“Oh, nothing, nothing… more wine, good man!”

* * *

Barely an hour later, Geralt had stripped off his dusty clothes and lowered himself into the hot water provided by a timid young woman with passing resemblance to the bar tender. _Daughter, niece… maybe._ He draped his legs out over the edges of the tub, the extra room allowing him to sink down until the water lapped at his clavicle. _Hmmm._

Several deep breaths later and his mind sunk gratefully into its meditative state. Time passed. The water lost some of its scalding heat. His senses stretched languorously through the inn. The scent of the soap and salts in the water; the sound of murmured conversations in the adjacent room and the muffled squeaks of mice in the rafters…

_The loud, abrasive clank of tin drink containers and wooden door as Jaskier fell through it._

Geralt opened one amber eye. He followed Jaskier as he stumbled across the room; he only managed enough coordination to carefully set his lute atop a cabinet. Moments later, the bard pushed one of the flagons he had carried from the bar into his hand. Geralt shuffled in the bath to sit up. “Locals not entertaining enough for you?”

“No, quite tiresome, actually. Well… I found out one useful thing. The town is a short walk further down the road, behind the treeline. There’s a haunting you might want to look into. Notice isn’t up yet, but apparently the owner of the house is dropping by to pin it up tomorrow,” Jaskier grinned, proud of his Witcher-y offering. “You see, not such a bad idea after all. You get a soak in the tub, I get a nice comfy bed… _and_ we get another heroic balla--, I mean… monster… slaying.”

Mildly impressed with such swift reconnaissance, Geralt raised his drink in mock salute before downing it in a few graceless mouthfuls. Empty flagon cast aside, he lowered back into the water with a pleased grumble.

Jaskier perched on the edge of the bunk nearby, his legs folding under him. He sipped at his wine and watched. Occasionally he would hum a little ditty – he was working on a tune for the Ekhidna kill - allowing himself free reign to scrutinise the beautiful plains of Geralt’s shoulders and chest. He spent a lot of time watching his Witcher – yes, he had decided this one was _his –_ but had to be discreet, because…

“What are you staring at?” The water rippled as Geralt sat up, lips quirked down in a trademark frown.

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because, dear Geralt, I enjoy looking at pretty things. And you qualify.” Jaskier flashed him one of his most charming smiles, which was met with the expected scowl.

“Save your flattery for your simpering courtiers and married women, bard.”

“You see… you see! You just can’t take a compliment, can you? I watch you Geralt, I’ve figured you out! It’s not my singing that bothers you, is it? It’s the positive _attention_ that my songs bring. You can’t stand it.” Jaskier sprang enthusiastically from the edge of the bunk, brandishing his cup of wine as if addressing a full court of spectators. “You squirm when people thank you… _just give me the coin…_ and off you trot. Well, Roach trots… you just kind of…” The bard made a show of lumbering across the floor, feet scraping across the planks. It was a complete fallacy. Geralt moved with all the careful thought and grace of a large, dangerous cat. It was more for… well, to annoy him. 

The Witcher said nothing. He was staring at the far end of the bath, tight-lipped.

 _Positive attention_ was not something he was used to. To be spat on, to have rocks thrown, to be called a freak… this was Geralt’s lot. His liberation only came when they _needed_ him. If there was a grave hag stealing children, or a wraith poisoning a well… you needed a Witcher. But any other time? Witchers were an uncomfortable reminder of man’s mortality. A necessary evil and an uncomfortable truth all at the same time. For some reason, the praise and recognition brought by Jaskier’s ballads had only served to strengthen Geralt’s feelings of… _otherness_.

“Geralt?”

The Witcher looked up slowly. He had heard Jaskier’s approach but had not really _registered_ it. The worried tone in the bard’s voice caught his attention.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… to sour the mood.”

“No. It’s definitely the singing.”

“Oh, for f--… well, I’m going to bed. And you’re not invited.”

Jaskier turned ‘round to storm off, abandoning his original plan to assist with Geralt’s bath in favour of dramatically flinging himself onto the rather lumpy mattress. While his back was turned, he missed the small smirk of amusement on his companion’s face.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Jaskier didn’t stir as Geralt prepared to depart. There were benefits to preternatural strength and grace. It took the Witcher only half an hour to find the contractor who – apparently – had been intending to seek him out anyway. 

“Terrible, it’s terrible, I tell you, Witcher,” the man stuttered. He was short and round, his grey-speckled goatee cut neatly above a plentiful supply of chins, and every finger boasted a ring or trinket. Watery grey eyes mewled up at Geralt imploringly. “All hours of the night it rattled the paintings, clanked the armour and slammed the doors. And then… it started… it started _killing things_.” He put a handkerchief up to his nose. “Oh, dear Lord… it was so…”

“Please. The more you can tell me the quicker I can get to work.” Geralt could be diplomatic when he needed to be. This was his element. He was needed. The expert. The saviour. His liberation.

“Yes, yes… quite,” the contractor swallowed audibly. “Well, first it killed my sister’s cat – horrible little gremlin it was – but skinned alive? I, well… it was terrible. And then it took some cattle, a few of my dogs… and _then_ … and then the _stable boy._ Only a boy of seven. Witcher, it was… so... his poor mother still hasn’t stopped wailing.”

“What did the boy look like when you found him?”

“We… we haven’t buried him yet. His mother just… just won’t let go. You can come and see the body. See for yourself. It’s beyond words, I tell you. Beyond words.”

“Let me get the rest of my bags. I can investigate your property when I get there. Give me some directions.”

A set of directions scribbled down on a scrap piece of parchment later, and Geralt returned to the inn. It didn’t take long for him to spot Jaskier propped up at a table near the bar, surrounded by spectators. A strip of bacon brandished in one hand and a fork in the other, he appeared to be regaling his admirers with his latest adventure…

“A banshee from hell, I tell you! Its shriek could shatter the stone of Vizima’s walls. Talons as long as my arms,” he lifted from his chair, arms waving to emphasise the sheer _magnitude_ of the beast. “And teeth even longer. It sprung from the water as if compelled by the Man of Mirrors himself… and then along comes the White Wolf, armed with silver and blazing all fury. The dance of death, he spins and he… oh, Geralt! GERALT! I was just telling my fine new friends of your latest conquest.” He shoved the bacon triumphantly into his mouth as six pairs of eyes all turned to face the Witcher with a mixture of awe and trepidation.

Geralt suppressed an uncomfortable grimace, grunted and moved to walk past. Jaskier didn’t miss a beat, “Wait… wait… I know that look. Brooding, pensive scowl. We have a job. Ladies and gentlemen, another quest! Another beast to be slain! A dark foe to be hunted.” A general murmur of excitement. “Geralt… Geralt? Wait, wait for me…” He snatched another piece of bacon, bowed to his former companions and pursued the Witcher at full canter.

When they reached their room, Jaskier wasted no time in grabbing his cloak and lute. “So? What is it? You went to look at that haunting, didn’t you? Noon wraith? Hag? Witch?”

Geralt didn’t reply. Jaskier pouted. “Geralt, I--.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“The stories. Stop.”

“Geralt, I’m a bard. Stories are my bread and butter; my chocolate pudding – I can no sooner stop bard-ing than you can stop witcher-ing.“

“Hmm.” Geralt finished securing his swords to his back and lifted his bags to his shoulder but said nothing more. Telling Jaskier to stay at the inn was a fool’s errand, so he didn’t waste his breath, but he could ensure Jaskier stayed at a safe distance when the time came.

Jaskier sighed and followed his companion out into the dim autumn sunlight. They walked the three miles out of town to the contractor’s property in silence.

* * *

The owner of the house hadn’t yet returned from his errands in town, and so Geralt and Jaskier were escorted out towards the stables by one of the servants. Wordlessly, the woman gestured them into the barn and pointed towards what appeared to be an empty stall.

It wasn’t empty.

Geralt crouched down by the corpse, lifting the bloodied bedsheet away from the boy’s face.

Jaskier blanched. “He’s… he’s so _young_ , Geralt. Nine? Ten?”

“Seven.”

 _Seven_. Jaskier mouthed the word, but instead of prattling on any further, he remained respectfully silent while Geralt did his work. Sometimes he got so wrapped up in the excitement and adventure of it all that he forgot that people _died_ ; they were _murdered_ by these things that Geralt hunted. They suffered and they screamed. Monsters didn’t even spare the young.

The boy was ashen grey. No surprise there – he had been dead for two days now – but his expression was still stuck in the contortions of pure terror. There was no peace for the lad even in death. Geralt moved the bedsheet further down to the boy’s waist to inspect his chest. _What was left of it._ His ribs were splayed open as if something had erupted from the inside; crusted blood clung to the walls of the cavity and congealed around his organs. _Heart, liver, kidneys…_ all accounted for. _No scorch marks._ Geralt leaned closer and inhaled. Metallic blood, putrefaction, something… _else._ Faint. Couldn’t quite place it.

He ran a gloved hand over the boy’s face to give him the dignity of closed eyes, before pulling the sheet back over. When he rose to his full height again, Jaskier finally spoke. “He looked… terrified.”

“Yes. The shock killed him. Then his killer tore him open.” _Why? Not to eat. Not to kill, he was already dead. Not to take a trophy._

“What do you think it could be?”

“Definitely a spectre of some kind. From what our employer has told me, it started small and worked its way up to humans.” 

They returned to the scant warmth of the outdoors and Jaskier was relieved to be away from the child’s corpse. How had it been so impossibly cold in there? He gripped the strap of his lute for comfort. “So, what now, noble Witcher?” His theatrics were muted.

“We need to spend the night.”

“Spend the _what?_ ”

* * *

The owner of the house returned a mere twenty minutes later. He practically shook Geralt’s arm off in gratitude when he confirmed the contract. _For a fee, of course._ There was no room for favours in the monster hunting business. It was this latter concept that Jaskier was mulling over as he sat perched in the bay window of their allocated room. He plucked idly at the strings of his lute, teasing the pegs to and fro to produce a crisper note.

“Geralt? There’s a woman in the garden.”

“Thank you for that vital piece of information, Jaskier.”

“No, you brute. I’m serious. Come and look. She’s… well, she’s a bit odd.”

The anxious note in Jaskier’s voice pulled Geralt over. He left the bags he had been sorting through and stood at the bay window, gazing down into the garden. 

The garden itself was a huge oblong. Grass and flowerbeds were unkempt and the tangle of vines and shrubbery made it difficult to calculate just how big the grounds were. The pathways were mostly overgrown with moss and the large fountain in the centre was cracked, aging and completely waterless. At its edge though sat a figure dressed entirely in black. The dress and veil flowed down like liquid obsidian. She was stooped, but her face was uncovered and Geralt could see that she could be no older than her late twenties. She seemed almost barely present; her gaze would have studied the surface of the water had there been any, but instead she stared listlessly into the empty basin.

“Is it… the _spectre_?” Jaskier strummed on his lute for effect.

Geralt huffed in dismissal. “No. Human.” He returned to his bags, glass bottles tinkling as he placed them on a nearby dresser. The room was basically empty. Shadows and scuffs on the walls and floors spoke of once grand decoration, but now all that remained was one dresser, an aging couch and the rather large – and only – bed at the far end of the room. The house. The garden. The woman dressed all in black. Everything about this case was desolate and empty.

“It was awfully nice for him to offer to put us up for the night, but I’d much rather be back at that inn. Far fewer ghost-women and flickering shadows.”

“You are more than welcome to go back,” Geralt murmured.

“And miss all the action? You can’t be serious,” Jaskier set his lute gently against the wall, taking a moment to brush down her neck to ensure she wouldn’t topple, “besides, you would miss my invaluable insights.”

“Hmm.”

As night fell, they joined their host for dinner. Jaskier was the only one enjoying the food; he shovelled huge spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, lentil stew and fried beans with bacon into his mouth. Geralt picked over the pheasant and roasted potatoes, taking measured sips from a goblet of wine.

Jaskier paused long enough between mouthfuls to stare curiously down the table. Enough seats for twenty guests, at least. “My lord, will your wife not be joining us?”

“Matis, please, if you mean to save me from my demons, then you should use my first name,” Matis heaved a sigh, lifting his hands to rest across his plentiful belly as he leaned back in his chair. “I think you mean my sister. And no, she will not. She has barely touched a scrap of food since, well… since returning here three months ago.”

“Returning…? Where was she before?”

Matis shifted uncomfortably, glancing first to Geralt, and then back to Jaskier. “You must understand, while I am at heart a Temerian, I am a loyal subject of the Nilfgaardian Empire. Nothing I am about to say should be misconstrued as--”

“There is no need for your platitudes. We aren’t about to turn you over to van Emreis. Speak plainly.” Geralt sat up in his chair.

“Of course, of course,” Matis cleared his throat and mirrored Geralt’s movement. “My sister lived just outside Orlagor when the Nilfgaardians arrived. Her husband – my brother-in-law – he had already perished defending the borders against them. It was just her and her two boys. One was four, the other was ten…”

“ _Was.”_ Jaskier emphasised the word, his cheery demeanour draining from his face as his heart sunk to the bottom of his chest. Geralt listened, face unreadable.

“There was no mercy. They… _violated_ my sister, and when the boys got in the way, they… umm…” Matis inhaled, his grief audible in the sniffle of his nose and the crack of his voice, “I have never known such brutality. It… it broke her. She won’t talk to me; she sees me as a traitor. A coward. But she doesn’t _understand._ If I were to just throw myself into resistance, she would be alone. At the mercy of any brigand or soldier that happened to pass through. We must work to live, to rebuild… but she just longs for the end.”

“Surviving is sometimes the harder choice,” Geralt’s voice was low. “There is no shame in choosing to survive.”

“Yes, well… she doesn’t see it that way.”

Jaskier glanced at Geralt. It was difficult to read him in these situations; his expression was stoic, and his eyes were two closed doors. Locked and bolted. Yet, his body language had changed subtly, and he showed little interest in the food in front of him. Geralt’s appetite was usually voracious, especially when the food was free.Jaskier turned back to their host. “How about servants? You are a lord of title and esteem – the townsfolk knew and spoke well of you – but I have seen only a handful of people on this entire estate.”

Matis scratched his chins. “Well, we have my sister’s handmaid. It was her boy that…” He trailed off. “Then there’s the cook and her lad. He runs the errands, chops the vegetables. Then there’s just our head of house and her boy; he does all the DIY and general odd jobs and she does her best to keep the house in good order. My wife passed away some years ago; illness. Gods rest her soul. Everyone else… well, I have had a rather large turnover since all this began.” He smiled weakly.

“You employ a disproportionate number of mothers and sons, Matis,” Jaskier tucked one leg under his rear, boosting himself enough to pick up his goblet and down his wine.

“Yes, well, the war has left a disproportionate number of widows, Master Jaskier. At least here I can offer them a roof, a job and enough food to stave off their hunger. Safety from what’s going on… out there.” He rose, the scrape of chair legs echoing in the hollow dining room. “Until recently, of course. I fear you’re our last hope, Geralt of Rivia. Anyway, I must retire… I am afraid that these days I find myself unable to stay awake much past sundown.”

“Lord Matis,” Geralt rose too. “Can I suggest that you and your staff sleep in the same room? It will be easier to protect you. The dining room… not much furniture, no shadows to hide in and a large fireplace.”

Matis blinked and opened his mouth hesitantly, and then conceded. “Of course, I will ask Lucinda to arrange for bedding and such to be brought here. Will you be needing anything else, Master Rivia?”

Geralt shook his head and then looked to Jaskier as Matis’ back disappeared through the dining room door. Jaskier spoke first, “Geralt, what _is_ this creature?” He rose from his chair, tugging the ends of his sleeves anxiously. “You know, don’t you?”

“I have an idea. And I hope I’m wrong.”

A chill ran down Jaskier’s spine. Geralt looked troubled. That didn’t bode well.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders. For some reason, the blaze in the hearth failed to penetrate the creeping chill of the dining room. The remaining members of the household had gathered, including Matis’ sister, who could very well have passed off as the spectre itself. She moved through the room on the arm of the cook and settled on the furs and linens that had been laid out for her.

“Is that everyone?” Geralt deposited his own bags at the far end of the hall; he set himself apart from the rest as he always did, allowing the household to huddle near the fire while he knelt in the flickering shadows.

“Yes. All accounted for. Do you have everything you need, Master Witcher?” Matis lowered himself to the floor with some effort, face reddening. The two remaining maidservants – cook and head of house – his sister, and the two boys who tussled as their mothers tried to convince them to go abed. They both held wooden training swords in their hand, and they clacked together sporadically as each took their turn in playing their new favourite game: _The Witchers and Ghosts._

Geralt nodded wordlessly. He removed a handful of glass vials from a saddle bag and knelt down. Around his right knee he set them in a small semi-circle and in front of him he laid his silver sword, still recumbent in its scabbard, but no less ominous.

Jaskier knew better than to interrupt this ritual. The fact that he had never _wanted_ to was just icing on the beautiful, silver-maned Witcher-cake. Geralt preparing for a hunt was a breath-taking sight; his armour lashed tight across his torso, hair tied back and predatory eyes afire in the darkness. _The cloak was suddenly a bit too warm._

“Well, I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’ll feel much less afeared this night with a Witcher watchin’ over us,” the cook murmured, tucking her son beneath a heavy linen blanket.

The boy piped up, brandishing his wooden sword in Geralt’s direction. “I’ll help ya’ with it, sir. ‘Tween you an’ me, the ghost’ll not stand a chance.”

The other boy scoffed. “Will, you’n piss yourself afore you smite any ghost. You ran cryin’ to yer ma when that suit o’ armour fell over in the wind.”

“Shut it, Gerry. I’d make a better Witcher ‘n’ you any day!”

His mother smiled fondly and stroked silvery blonde locks from his face, before casting one final glance at Geralt. “Gods bless, Master Witcher, sir.” She bedded down not far from the fire, fussing only briefly over the arrangement of pillows behind her head. Matis’ sister had been watching from her blankets, her eyes wide and dark, her expression desolate. Jaskier felt a mixture of pity and apprehension in equal measure whenever she was near.

The others settled around her and one by one they dropped into fitful sleep. The snuffling and murmuring of the sleeping household accompanied the crackle of the fire and Jaskier was determined to stay awake. He huddled in his cloak and rested on his side.

Geralt knelt in absolute silence. He had watched the exchange with a melancholy front that Jaskier had rarely seen. He didn’t comment.

As the sun finally set fully, Geralt picked up the first of the potions and knocked it back with only a scant grimace. _Never could abide the taste._ Two more followed – Cat, Swallow, Tawny Owl. His eyes slid closed to allow his other senses to take full reign and keep his Cat-enhanced vision sharp. His consciousness spread through the house, every creak and rustle scrutinised.

_All was quiet._

* * *

Jaskier wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but when he woke the fire had reduced to dull embers in the grate. He was unable to pinpoint what had disturbed him until he turned his head to peer blearily at Geralt. The realisation was as merciless as a slap across the face and he sat up quickly.

Geralt was alert. He had raised up onto his right foot, the hilt of the silver sword gripped in corresponding hand while his left held it down by his hip. Jaskier could only see his outline in the dying light of the fire, so when Geralt moved silently from his position, he vanished into the darkness.

Jaskier sat up, the fear-prompted adrenalin reducing him to a shuddering pant. Only now did he notice that his breath fogged before his mouth. Cold. _Unnaturally cold._ The door to the far left of the dining room creaked open as the Witcher disappeared into the bowels of the house in search of his prey.

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, straining to hear something in the darkness, but Geralt must have been too far away.

So focused was Jaskier on listening for any sign of Geralt, that he failed to notice little Will sneaking out through the cracked door. His slight frame didn’t make a sound against the flagstones of the dining hall and his narrow shoulder slipped through the gap with little bother. _‘ll show Gerry, I ain’t scared o’ no ghost._

* * *

Geralt prowled the halls. Eyes blackened with Cat scanning the darkness; nostrils flaring for the tell-tale scent of sulphur and death that accompanied his monster. It was playing games with him. It knew he was there. It knew he was _hunting_ for it. A whisper from the shadows; scraping furniture in the floor above, and a lingering presence in his periphery that vanished before he could pinpoint it.

A game of cat and mouse and Geralt was unsure which role he was playing.

He didn’t allow it to lure him too far from the dining room, doubling back on himself when he sensed the humans in his care becoming too distant. This pattern continued for an undefined amount of time, but Geralt was certain it would be dawn soon. His spectre was playing with him and wasting the night away.

It was on one of the return trips to the entrance of the dining hall that he caught the scent. _Sweat, potatoes and dish soap._ Geralt shouldered the door open with little regard for those still sleeping and glared at the pile of blankets. “Jaskier, where is the second one?”

The bard blinked in the darkness, “S-second one, Geralt, what--?”

“The boy, where is he?”

“Geralt, I don’t know…he was here… he must of--.”

_The scream of agony that echoed through the house would haunt Jaskier for the rest of his days._

* * *

It wasn’t hard to find him. The scent of blood clogged Geralt’s every sense. When they entered the kitchen, the sun was peeking through the shuttered windows; the Witcher had sheathed his sword and so was able to outstretch his arm to prevent the cook from entering. He ended up catching her in his arms as she collapsed in wailing anguish.

Jaskier stepped past and swallowed the lump in his throat. Just as the stable boy had, Will had died in terror. He had clearly found his ghost and it had pursued him to the one place he had felt safe. His blood spattered the flagstones where the monster had exacted its savagery and little of his tiny, narrow torso was left unbroken.

His hand was still wrapped around his wooden sword and Jaskier stooped to pick it up, his lips apart and the tears hanging in his eyes unbidden.

Geralt passed the cook off to Matis and approached, his eyes still partially blackened. When Jaskier turned to face him, the expression that greeted him struck him cold. He thought the Witcher was going to cut him down where he stood, but instead, Geralt stopped short, and _very close_.

Heat and rage rolled off him in waves and Jaskier fought the urge to take a step back; the rumour of the emotionless Witcher was just that - _a rumour_. Witchers were just good at control in the presence of normal folk and when on the hunt. That is, until something, or someone, fucked it all up just too damn badly to go unpunished.

Through gritted teeth, “Is this one going to make it into one of your songs, _bard_?” And he trudged past, shouldering open the kitchen door into the garden and flooding the room with dawn’s first light.

Jaskier watched him go. _Geralt, I’m…_

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt returned later the same day and met with Matis in the dining room. The cook had been convinced to release her child to the local sawbones for burial preparation, but she sobbed mutely in her room. Gerry too was inconsolable, and his mother did her best to soothe him, hugging him close to her chest. Alongside the two of them, Matis’ sister sat on one of the dining chairs, staring mutely down at her hands.

“What now?” Matis sounded hollow. It was as if the war had finally caught up with him; the realisation of just how bleak the world was settling on his rotund frame and draining it of all joviality and life. Jaskier sat on the windowsill, his knees hugged to his chest.

“You take them down to the town tonight, and you don’t come back until morning. Your sister stays here.”

Matis’ eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “Out of the question! You’ve seen what… what this _thing_ will do! If she stays here, she’s as good as dead.”

Geralt stopped his pacing and gave a derisive snort. “It won’t harm her,” he turned to the woman now, dour in her black dress and veil, “will it?”

Their host looked incredulously at his sibling. “Grace, what… what is he talking about?”

She looked up, first at her brother, and then at Geralt, but said nothing.

The Witcher growled. “There is a reason for its choice of victims.”

“Geralt, you’re not making any sense…” Jaskier piped up from the window; tired, but desperate for answers after the horror of the night before. “What do you mean? Is she somehow responsible?” It was rare for his companion to get _worked up_ by a contract. Jaskier had an inkling that it might be because this involved children; the Witcher had the biggest heart of anyone he knew, even if he did hide it behind a barrier of ice and brambles. On their journeys together, they had stopped many a time so Geralt could pull some rations from Roach’s saddlebags and pass it over to the orphans and urchins that scattered the countryside of the northern kingdoms. Some of them ran from him and so he left it wrapped in linen or in a tree for them to find later. When Jaskier had asked him about it, he had received only a grunt in reply.

“It’s an ethereal. They’re born from human pain, suffering and fear; it has to be all-consuming. They take the form of your darkest nightmare and when they get strong enough, they can enter this world at will.” He continued to stare at Grace. “But they’re still tied to the whims of their creator, even if they can’t directly control its actions.”

At this point, Matis was almost apoplectic. “Witcher?! What is the meaning of this? You can’t possibly think--.”

“He’s right,” she spoke. Her voice was dry and rasped between parched lips; her throat cracked from disuse, “it comes from me.”

“Grace--.”

“ _Shut up_ , Matis.” She snarled, her gaunt features pulling into a feral snarl as her dark eyes suddenly came alive. “Every day I have to relive that moment. The moment those soldiers _stole_ my boys from me. Every _da_ y I see mothers with their sons, and they will never _know_ … never _suffer_ like I have.” She turned then to stare at Gerry, and his mother gazed back in terror. “And if you won’t allow mine to end, then why should theirs _?_ ” Her lip quivered and she looked down again; the anger had absorbed too much energy. “I never thought for a moment my nightmares would become everyone’s reality…”

“Grace,” Matis spoke in a hoarse whisper, the disbelief and shock draining all colour from his face. The realisation that the ones you loved were the source of your problems was always a bitter pill to take. His expression went through several emotions in the space of a handful of moments; disbelief, anger, and then sadness. Eventually, he looked at Geralt. “Can you… can you save her?”

Geralt leaned against the side of the solid dining room table and folded his arms. “I can’t make any promises. But if I don’t kill it, then it won’t stop with just your household.”

“I do not fear death, Witcher. I will stay to help you trap your ghoul.” Grace gazed at the wall.

“Right, well… I will collect our--, my things,” Matis gestured for his remaining maid to follow him, but paused before he turned to leave. “I… I thank you, Master Rivia. And… I understand.” The rest of the words went unspoken. He understood that he might return in the morning with no family left at all.

“Jaskier, you too.”

“But, Geralt--.”

“No argument. You leave by sunset. Return in the morning.”

Jaskier stood in silence, his lower lip rolling between his teeth. “Geralt, I know I made a mistake. I should have been more attentive, I’m sorry--.” He looked down, and when he looked up again Geralt was standing close; the anger of earlier that day had vanished completely, and again his expression was indecipherable.

“You made no mistake. There is nothing to forgive.” He looked away, and then out of the window past Jaskier’s head. “I was arrogant, and someone else paid the price for it. Someone who trusted me. I cannot risk you tonight. I will not.” 

Jaskier wanted to reach out and touch Geralt’s face in that moment. To offer some comfort; some reassurance that last night had not been his fault either. Evil existed. Evil had existed long before the Witchers, and it would continue to exist long after it had consumed the last of them. He didn’t offer empty platitudes though and stayed his hands. “Very well. I will return in the morning,” he leaned down to grab his bag and his lute, pausing in a vain attempt to bring a modicum of levity in what, he hoped to any deity that was listening, was not their final conversation, “but you better not be dead or I’ll… I’ll write a song about our sordid love affair.”

“I’m sure your followers have come to expect only outlandish fiction from you by this point, Jaskier.”

* * *

Night crept up once again. The house was empty of every living soul, including Matis’ remaining hunting dogs. Geralt wanted nothing to distract the ethereal from him. This time he prepared more carefully. He sat Grace in the centre of a circle of Yrden, the numerous hourglass-shaped runes traced on the floor in remnants of charcoal mixed with spectre oil. The same three vials of Witcher potions were laid out at Geralt’s knee as he knelt within the barrier, facing Grace with his silver blade before him.

With such a strong attachment to the corporeal world and only his creator and a single victim to exact vengeance upon, the ethreal would have little choice but to find Geralt on his battleground.

“Is it true what they say, Witcher?” Her voice was as hollow and cracked as before. “That you feel _nothing_. You are as heartless and bestial as the monsters you slay?”

“No,” Geralt flicked his eyes to her face. “We are just acutely aware of the cost.”

“Then we have something in common.”

The sun set.

* * *

It arrived as a whisper. As faint and harrowed as the last death rattle of a dying man. Geralt had consumed his potions barely half an hour before and unfurled to his feet, sword in hand.

Grace slumped in her chair, hands over her face, and whimpered.

Geralt raised his left hand and clicked his fingers. The runes around their perimeter flared to life in a blaze of purple, lighting up in series until the entire circle was aflame. The ethereal manifested itself with an angry shriek, unfurling from nothingness in black smoke and shadow.

The form it took was somewhat predictable. The Nilfgaardian armour that hung from its hulking shape rattled as it moved. The yellow sun emblazoned across the breastplate was chipped and faded, and only the right red castle was present at the shoulder. Its approximation of breath clouded before its helmeted head and flesh hung from its arms and hands as it dragged a huge broadsword across the floor. Geralt knew the lumbering slowness was an illusion designed to lull him into a false sense of security, and he was ready with a swift Quen when the creature suddenly dissipated into black shadow and swarmed forward.

It materialised in front of him and the impact on his shield was enough to propel them both apart. Geralt was able to stabilise his trajectory by twisting into a flip and ended on his feet; he was prepared when the ethereal renewed its attack. Bursts of black smoke and shadow, before it took a wide swing; the broadsword shredding through a tapestry and sparking off the stone of the floor as Geralt dodged to the left.

He parried the next blow and drove his boot into the armoured breastplate. Upon the third counter, he managed to hook his sword through the pommel of the broadsword and with a wrench that would have torn the ligaments and muscle of an ordinary man, he disarmed his opponent.

Apparently bored of feigning swordplay, the spectre’s hands phased and reshaped themselves into talons. The armour was melting in and out of existence as it focused on besting the first worthy opponent it had faced since _becoming_. Their dance continued in a whirlwind of silver and darkness; Geralt landed a few glancing blows and the spectre’s form fizzled and spat, bubbling as if someone had thrown acid at it. Several times he split it into wispy shadows using Aard, allowing himself time to recover his stance or seek a better opening. It was an even fight and Geralt had to dive out the way to create some distance and re-evaluate.

He needed to draw it closer to him, to get under its defences and entice it in for the kill; it was too closed – too quick – for him to find an opening. “Fuck.” He left the smallest of gaps in his guard and the ethereal took the bait. He wound up to strike, twisting his body down and taking the attack across the thigh. Toxic talons raked through flesh, and Geralt grimaced as even his preternatural defences failed to dampen all of the white-hot pain that seared up through his torso from the wound.

He drove the silver blade into the creature; the point erupted through its back and its unbloodied hand latched into his shoulder, finding a way under his right epaulette and shattering through his collarbone. Geralt grit his teeth and twisted his sword, forcing it deeper. The ethereal dissipated with a physical blast that sent him skidding back across the floor.

His head connected with the wall at the far end of the room and he slumped, breathing heavily through his nose in an attempt to remain conscious. At the edge of his blurred vision, he could see Grace. She was smiling. And just before he lost his fight for consciousness – not even Witchers were immune to head injuries – she spoke.

“Thank you, Witcher.”

* * *

Jaskier couldn’t remember the last time he had woken at daybreak while staying at an inn. He ambushed Matis as the man left his room with the same idea, and together they returned to the house on the back of one of Matis’ geldings. The pair were accompanied by an elven surgeon – Undri – that had listened to Jaskier’s tale at the bar the night before; he had spoken at length of his experience with Witchers some decades ago. For Jaskier, his tales had been only a partial distraction; not even his lute could bring him comfort that evening. When Jaskier had mentioned the word _ethereal_ , the elf drained of all colour and insisted immediately that his medical services would be needed.

The house was silent when they arrived, but Jaskier sensed that it was somehow… lighter. The creeping sense of dread had vanished from its halls, but it now buried itself in his heart instead as he searched frantically for Geralt.

He found him in the dining room still, propped up against the wall beneath the windowsill that Jaskier had occupied the day before. His sword rested on the floor a metre away and his breathing was shallow and pained. Jaskier dropped to his knees at his side and grabbed his chin. “Geralt. Speak to me. _Please._ ” He couldn’t help the quiver of fear in his voice; he didn’t usually find his Witcher slumped on the floor after a fight. Bloody, yes; battered, yes, and covered in all manner of gore and entrails, most certainly. But not _fallen_.

“Jaskier…” His voice a low rumble, his pupils struggling to dilate to accommodate the light streaming through the window. “…it’s dead. Something’s not…” He was struggling to speak, his voice thick and laboured.

“Good, good. Well done, my valiant Witcher. I never doubted you. Never. Tell me, tell me what hurts…”

Geralt tried to sit up, grimaced and latched a hand onto his thigh. Now that Jaskier looked, he could see blood congealed on the back of his head and dripping down from his shoulder from beneath his armour; the wound was still open. _Not right._ Geralt healed quickly; Jaskier had seen him shrug off bites and lacerations, and they had stopped bleeding in an hour or so.

Undri arrived shortly after them, dropping into a crouch and reviewing the damage with a clinical eye. “We need to get him somewhere with better light,” his nostrils flared. “The smell of these wounds… I think your Witcher has been poisoned.”

“Right, uh… well,” Jaskier glanced over his shoulder, searching for Matis for the first time. Their host was knelt before his sister, still sat up in the dining chair they had left her in the night before. Her skeletal hands clasped in his. She wasn’t moving, and he sobbed quietly. _Shit, fuck…_ Jaskier didn’t have time for etiquette. “Down the hall. The room he gave us. It has high windows, faces south, loads of light. This is going to take two of us.”

And it did. While both Jaskier and Undri were both of similar heights to Geralt, there was just so much _more_ of the Witcher than either of them. Jaskier could really appreciate the sheer density of the man as the two of them struggled to haul him to his feet. It didn’t help that he couldn’t support his own weight, and the moment he was upright, Geralt doubled over and vomited bile and other _niceties_ onto the floor. “Concussion,” Undri offered between grunts of exertion. “That’s the least of our worries.”

With an arm each – Jaskier could feel the blood dripping down his own clothes from Geralt’s shoulder injury – they somehow managed to get the Witcher to a bed. Both set about unstrapping his armour and unceremoniously dumping it on the floor. Jaskier knew he should step back and allow the elf to do his work unimpeded, but he couldn’t help but have a hand on Geralt at all times; his wrist, his hand, his unwounded shoulder. He was still warm. Still breathing. _Still alive._

Undri had to use a knife to cut away the remains of Geralt’s shirt and shred through the leg of his trousers. Jaskier balked when he caught sight of the injuries. Not so much the blood, and the bone jutting from just below his neck, but the dark veins of toxin leaching away from the sites of the wound. “What… what is it?”

“Ethereals are as toxic as the emotions they represent,” the elf murmured, turning away to open his surgeons’ bag. “Just like pain and suffering eats away at the creator’s mind, the physical manifestation will eat away at its victim. If your Witcher had been human, he would already be dead. We need to slow his heart down to its resting rate. It will slow the toxins and give me time to brew what I need.”

“Well, I can hardly sing him a _lullaby_ , can I?”

“No. This will knock him out though.” A clean strip of linen folded into his palm, Undri dumped some clear liquid into the centre, paused, calculated, and then emptied the bottle for good measure; enough for three or four normal men. He stepped forward with the intent of pressing it over Geralt’s face. As if he sensed what approached, Geralt’s eyes snapped open, suddenly alert. _Fight or flight._ His teeth gritted and his expression was murderous. His uninjured arm moved quickly from the bed and Undri’s fragile wrist threatened to shatter in the grip that secured it.

“No, no… Geralt, it’s alright,” Jaskier tried to soothe, forcing the panic to the back of his mind and levelling his tone. “Here. Let me do it. He won’t… he trusts me.” _I think._ Undri passed the wet cloth over with his free hand; wincing as the Witcher’s fingers tightened further.

The potion smelled sharp and acidic and Jaskier was careful to not breathe too deeply. “Geralt… Geralt, look at me.” Softly spoken as if to a wounded animal, but it did the trick. The Witcher looked at him, brow furrowed and jaw loosening. “This is going to help. You need to sleep. We’re… we’re going to fix you up. It will be fine, I promise. I’ll be right here; I’ll make sure nothing happens.”

By some miracle, it worked. Jaskier settled the linen over Geralt’s mouth and nose and the Witcher inhaled obediently. Amber eyes did not leave Jaskier until they flickered closed; his fingers slipped from Undri’s wrist and his hand fell limp to the mattress once more. Only now did the bard pay attention to his own heart thundering in his chest, careful to remove the cloth and pass it back to its original owner, his hands shaking. “I have never put so much faith in a stranger,” his voice barely a whisper. “Please…”

“I’ll do my best. Now sit there. Let me work. I will talk you through anything that was unclear after I have seen to the injuries.”

It took all of Jaskier’s strength of will to pull himself away. He dragged the nearby armchair a bit closer and watched, his heart in his throat.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a bit of poetic license with the ethereal. There is very little information in the bestiary and I am only halfway through the books. I based some of its mythology on the Baubas - it's like the Lithuanian boogeyman and it is known to steal and attack misbehaving children. Any feedback on this particular spectre would be greatly appreciated.
> 
> Many thanks for the Kudos so far; I haven't written anything in many years, so it is good to know I am still at least semi-competent.


	5. Chapter 5

_Geralt waded through the mud. The fog was thick, and his right hand twitched in readiness; foglets were common in this type of weather, not to mention the opportunity for drowners to be hiding the furrows of mire and fallen trees. He couldn’t remember why he was here, but he knew he had to keep walking. The oppressive dampness of the swamp clogged his nose and throat, and he couldn’t see further than a handful of feet in front of him._

_“Geralt!”_

_“Ciri?”_

_It grew cold. Very cold. Ice and snow drifted through branches of the trees and appeared to solidify the ground in front of him, but it still swallowed his leg to his knee when he took a step. The chill bit through the muggy cloak of fog and into his chest. The impossible sounds of hooves drumming, and then a scream._

_“Ciri!” His voice was swallowed by the fog and he fought to walk faster. Couldn’t. Stuck. He growled in frustration. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t move. The fog was growing denser still. Another scream – ‘Geralt, please!’ – and he called out again, but was met only with the louder hammering of hooves and the bray of a horse._

_And then the fog and trees cleared in an instant. It was just the darkness, and the ice, and the snow._

_And Jaskier. Relief._

_“Geralt. Where are you? Geralt… it’s dark, I can’t…”_

_The Witcher tried to move towards him, but the mud held fast. A shadow passed between them heralded by the sing of steel and a fleshy gurgle. When the shade had vanished, Jaskier was grasping his throat as blood soaked through his fingers; he staggered and fell to his knees._

_“No! NO!” Geralt roared in fury, but when he reached behind him for the grip of his sword, he found he couldn’t lift his arm._

_He looked down._

_He wasn’t standing in mud._

_It was a roiling mass of smoky shadow; a tendril wrapped itself around his wrist and dragged him downwards. He fought and strained, ligaments and veins pressing against the surface of his skin, but no matter how much he struggled, the darkness just pulled him in deeper._

_Heavy footfalls echoed about him like thunderclaps and all Geralt could do was watch as the hulking Nilfgaardian soldier approached Jaskier, lifting an armoured foot to press down on the man’s back as he gurgled and thrashed. The broadsword in its grasp dripped dark blood._

_“You can’t save them, Witcher. They will all die. You will be their downfall.”_

_The darkness swallowed him as he screamed with rage._

* * *

Jaskier was glad Geralt was unconscious for the treatment he received. The start of the process was fairly innocuous; Undri had asked for Geralt’s bag and rummaged through until he had found what he was looking for. It was a bottle of milky texture and when Undri uncorked the top it had a sweet scent. What had Geralt called this one? Honey… something. Something… honey. It didn’t matter, it was dumped into a concoction of the surgeon’s making.

When he was finished, Undri had raised it to a boil on a fire Jaskier had managed to stoke up in the grate, and then separated into two amounts. He poured corn starch into the larger portion and thickened it to a paste.

And then came the part that turned Jaskier green. He pushed Geralt’s collarbone back into place, cleaned and bound both injuries with the paste, sutures and bandages. By the time he was done, he was soaked in Geralt’s blood to the elbows. 

Jaskier had no idea how much time had passed, but when he moved his shoulders ached and his legs were asleep. “Is he…?”

“He should recover,” Undri began to wipe his arms on a nearby towel. “He’ll probably have a headache when he wakes and unfortunately there’s not a lot I can do about the nightmares.”

“The nightmares?”

“Yes… they will feel extremely real, but when he wakes you can get him to drink this,” the elf handed Jaskier the remaining part of his decoction. “It will help. It tastes worse than anything in the world, but… it will help.”

“But, the ethereal… it _is_ dead. Geralt said it was dead.”

“Oh yes, it’s dead,” Undri stuffed the bloodied towel into his bag and clipped it shut, rolling his sleeves down. “The only demons there will be his own. I will return tomorrow, and then again two days after that to keep track. If anything changes, or he gets worse, then call for me at the inn.”

Jaskier tore his eyes from Geralt, moving around the end of the bed to grasp the elf’s hands. “Undri, thank you, I am sure Geralt will repay you when he wakes…”

The surgeon raised his hand in dismissal. “No. I… I did this for me as much as him,” he grabbed his bag and hung it on his shoulder. “I had a Witcher once.” A sad smile at his own joke, his gaze passing over Geralt wistfully. “But I couldn’t save him. Not from himself. Not from the monster that took him from me. Look after this one, Jaskier. They are a rare breed. A dying breed. And the world has no idea just how much they are needed.”

Jaskier said nothing as Undri left, but he sat close to _his_ Witcher. Hesitantly, he threaded his fingers into Geralt’s, comforted by the warmth that remained there, but wishing that they would grip back. Or punch him, which was probably more likely if Geralt woke to find him holding his hand. It didn’t matter. _Just be alright._

* * *

The nightmares didn’t involve screaming and shouting, but it was no less painful to watch Geralt fit and shake. His head turned and his fingers flexed and gripped at the sheets around him. Jaskier did his best to wipe the sweat away and changed the sheets several times, but otherwise he felt powerless to help. He couldn’t take the pain away.

In his fever, Geralt woke with a start on the second night and snatched Jaskier’s wrist as he rose to leave – even those with the most attentive bedside manner needed bathroom breaks. Geralt bit out only two words, “Don’t… leave.” His voice cracked, and the rawness of his expression stopped Jaskier’s heart.

Never before had his Witcher displayed _fear._

While he had no doubt that the Witcher trials and mutations had left their mark, Jaskier _knew_ Geralt had emotions. He used the whole ‘Witcher’s don’t feel anything’ excuse to avoid talking about things he didn’t want to, and to get away with general arse-holery when he felt like it… but his plea still left the bard stunned. He managed to shake off his stupor quickly enough to follow Undri’s instructions and get a few sips of remedy to Geralt’s lips before he fell unconscious again.

For three more days he held Geralt’s hand, hummed, sang and strummed on his lute to try and provide some semblance of comfort, or even rankle Geralt so much he woke up and demanded silence.

Either would do. 

When this routine began to irritate even him, Jaskier picked up a cloth and some wax and cleaned Geralt’s armour, arranging it reverently on top of the cabinet near the window and noting that it needed repairing. He stopped short of using a whetstone on the two swords and settled for cleaning them and returning them to their scabbards; he wasn’t quite sure he would survive Geralt if he managed to chip or blunt one.

It was on the fifth day since Geralt’s fight with the ethereal, and as Jaskier dozed in the armchair, that Geralt’s grip tightened around his. Jaskier gave a start and looked down at those calloused fingers and then to the inquisitive amber eyes. They were practically golden in the late afternoon light and they scrutinised Jaskier for some time, searching, _confirming_ , before a brief glimmer of relief flickered across their surface.

“Ah, good morning. You had a bit of a lay in after the battle, and well, I thought… uh…”

Geralt scowled and turned to look at the ceiling again. “I feel like shit.”

“Yes, it has been five days.”

“ _Fuck_.” He tried to sit up, Jaskier’s hand left empty as Geralt pushed both of his own into the mattress. The bard sprung to his feet and rested both palms on the Witcher’s chest.

“No, no… you should probably take it a bit slower.” He received a deep frown for his efforts and raised both hands in apology as he backed away. Suddenly feeling rather at a loss, Jaskier retrieved the remaining concoction from the bedside table and gestured for Geralt to take it. “You should drink the rest of this. Doctor’s orders.”

Geralt took the bottle with his unbandaged arm and uncorked the stopper. One sniff caused him to grimace. “White honey, bindweed… and… I have no fucking idea. Who made this?”

“An elf. You were… how much do you remember exactly, Geralt?”

The Witcher sat in silence for some time, bottle in hand and eyes cast to the wall. Finally, “Nothing after I killed the ethereal.”

“Are you sur--?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” he looked at Jaskier with intensity. Jaskier wasn’t exactly sure what _brand_ of intensity it was – anger, guilt, shame – but he didn’t push it. It was a conversation to have for another time.

“Your injuries were a bit more complex than normal. Apparently, it might take you longer to heal. So, we should probably stay for a bit longer, and umm… you also smell worse than a cow’s arse, so, perhaps a bath?”

Geralt grunted his reply and began to unfurl himself slowly from the blankets and sheets.

Jaskier grinned fondly at his back. “Good to have you back, Geralt.”

* * *

Geralt had insisted on relieving himself on his own – “Are you fucking serious? Stay there” – with Jaskier hovering nervously behind the door, but the bath proved too difficult to manage with just stubbornness alone.

The basin that had been provided was bigger than anything they were used to using at the odd inn or tavern, but it didn’t make manoeuvring with only half of your limbs functioning correctly any easier. Jaskier helped remove the bandages and insisted that Geralt use his support to get over the lip of the tub; it took some convincing.

When Geralt sat down, it was a relief for them both. Only a few rivulets of blood rippled out across the surface where some of the skin had broken again, but Geralt dismissed them with a wave of the hand.

He leaned back, eyes closed, and focused on the dull pain in the side of his leg, trying to roll his wounded shoulder, but with little success. Movement still limited, but it would return. When he tried to begin washing the blood from his hair though, there wasn’t enough flexibility, and he grunted in frustration, lips twisted in a scowl. Finger and thumb pinched the bridge of his nose as his head throbbed in protest. _A fucking headache. Really?_

Jaskier had watched until this point. Simply basking in the fact that Geralt was _awake_ , and _normal_. Not scared, not broken. _Normal._ But as he struggled, Jaskier left his post at the window and gently took the bar of soap from him… or tried to; the Witcher moved it away with a reproachful look. Jaskier sighed, “Geralt, let me… I’ve spent four days changing your bandages and your bed sheets. This ship has well and truly sailed, my friend.”

Begrudgingly, Geralt released the soap into Jaskier’s custody and dropped both arms into the bath water. “If this appears in a ballad …”

“Oh, my dear Witcher, I have already written the first five verses. There’s a rather nice one about your bottom, actually.”

Jaskier used the cracked jug they had been supplied to dampen Geralt’s hair, lathered up his hands and with reverence slid his fingers over his scalp. He had always thought his hair would be wiry, like a werewolf’s shaggy coat or a horse’s mane, but once the blood began to dissipate into the bathwater, it was like stroking through strands of silk.

Thumbs drew lazy circles from the base of Geralt’s skull as the rest of his fingers stroked up behind his ears towards his temples. _Wait, was that a purr?_ It was a barely audible rumble that quickly faded back into silence, but it definitely _qualified_. Jaskier gritted his teeth to suppress the grin and took a moment to level his tone. Don’t poke the wolf. “Everything alright?”

“Fine.” Growled, but it sounded distant. One hand lifted from the water and rested on the edge of the tub as if to ground himself.

“Mmhmm.” He gathered the suds away from Geralt’s forehead, and drew them back over his head, before resuming his ministrations at his neck. Palms drifted down over the backs of Geralt’s shoulders, only applying a light amount of pressure, but he was rewarded with a flurry of goose-bumps across bruised skin and a murmur of affirmation.

Jaskier left his palms resting lightly over the front of Geralt’s shoulders, hesitant, longing to run them down further, to elicit more purrs and more goose-bumps and hold his Witcher close. He listened to his own heartbeat hammering in his ears, so loud that he was certain Geralt could hear it, before he decided he would risk a broken nose if it meant alaying the last of his fears. He slid both palms down over Geralt’s chest and pulled him back against his own, resting his elbows on the edge of the tub and relieved when there wasn’t even token resistance. Fingertips brushed gently through the light dusting of hair on Geralt's chest and Jaskier nuzzled the side of his face against his cheek, revelling in the scratchiness of his beard and breathing deeply of his scent. “I thought you had died.”

“Hmm.”

“If I hadn’t met that elf at the inn… you would have. Geralt, I wouldn’t have had the first idea… you would have died in that bed, and I would have been powerless to stop it.”

Geralt said nothing at first, but his jaw tensed. Jaskier knew it was coming before his companion spoke. It happened every time someone expressed concern, or love. He found it impossible to accept affection freely given. Sex, _yes._ But love? It was alien to Geralt because he did not believe himself deserving, and so he lashed out in defence.

“Wouldn’t make a very good song, would it?”

Jaskier sighed, resigned. “One day, Geralt. You will see yourself through the eyes of those that love you, and perhaps you will fully understand your own value.” He took one final breath against the curve of Geralt’s neck as if to confirm to himself that he truly was there, before withdrawing to rinse the soap from his hair, neck and shoulders. Once finished, Jaskier rose. “I’ll get you some food. Don’t try to get out until I get back.”

* * *

Even when he had awoken, Geralt had not been entirely convinced by his reality. He peered at Jaskier with the halo of sunlight around his head and expected him to be snatched away _again_. His fingers gripped the hand that held them. _Real._ But not enough proof. This time when he moved it _ached,_ but he could move.

And when Jaskier asked him what he could remember? How could he tell the truth? That he had watched Jaskier, Yennefer, Ciri and Triss die repeatedly at the hands of different monsters, in different ways. He’d heard them scream, at times felt their blood run through his hands, and each time he had been powerless to stop it from happening. Each time the Nilfgaardian had been there to tell him it was his fault.

This hellscape had only been punctuated by Jaskier’s voice. When he strummed his lute and hummed sweet melodies, it was like a lighthouse on a tumultuous ocean, drawing Geralt closer and closer to the safety of the shore, guiding him around rocks that would dash him to pieces. He remembered waking briefly, and he _remembered_ begging Jaskier not to leave, but at the time he hadn’t been sure it _had_ been Jaskier, only that he couldn’t bear to see him snatched away again.

As Jaskier’s hands moved through his hair and down his neck, Geralt felt the numbness recede and the pain ebb. He had allowed that embrace because it assured him Jaskier was _there_ and real. Not dead; mauled; drowned… Geralt hadn’t got him killed, not yet.

And then… then Jaskier apologised. Apologised for not being _good enough_. And instead of offering the truth? Instead of thanking him, of assuring him that he was good enough, had always been good enough… Geralt had pushed him away. When the bard had gone, the Witcher smashed the side of his fist angrily into the edge of the tub, snarling through the white-hot tendrils of pain that shot through his chest. “ _Fuck.”_

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

When Jaskier returned, he brought with him a loaf of bread, some fruit and cold meats. Nothing too rich for Geralt’s first meal in five days. The Witcher practically inhaled it, and Jaskier was relieved to see his appetite had not been permanently damaged by the malice of the ethereal. Another sign that no lasting damage had been done. Jaskier took the opportunity to change the sheets on the bed for what felt like the thousandth time – Undri had insisted that a clean environment was vital to rapid recovery.

When Geralt began searching for his shaving kit and asked for a bowl, Jaskier provided. He watched as Geralt foamed soap across his face but could only stay silent for so long as the Witcher’s right-hand struggled to grip the razor blade; Jaskier was careful to keep his look of concern out of Geralt’s peripheral, enforcing the wry smile expected of him before he approached.

He clasped two hands over Geralt’s unsteady one, fingers slipping down to take the razor from him. “Let me,” he met no resistance this time, but still received a disgruntled look. “I will not allow you to take chunks out of that gorgeous face because you’re too stubborn to realise you need help. Sit.” And he only stopped short of acknowledging the obedience with _good wolf_ through a mixture of survival instinct and force of will.

Geralt sat on the edge of the bunk and Jaskier dragged the armchair over so he could sit between the Witcher’s knees, shaving blade in hand and bowl of water in his lap.

There was something painfully intimate about those fifteen minutes. He could feel Geralt’s warm breath against his hand as he guided his face left and right, and the Witcher watched Jaskier intently from each angle. There was no distrust, only a subtle curiosity; the bard was too intent on his task to notice.

When Jaskier was finished, he ran his hand along Geralt’s jaw to check his work. His thumb strayed to up to his full lower lip, ghosting across the softer skin in a moment of weakness. He managed to cover the action by pretending to wipe away a stray patch of foam. “Hmm, if your jawline was any sharper, I’d cut myself,” he flashed a toothy grin, rinsing the razor and his hands in the soapy water and offering Geralt a towel. “There you go. Back to a nice afternoon shadow. It’s a shame really, I find the beard rather dashing.” He shuffled the chair back and rose to dispose of the water.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier stopped dead, teeth grinding together in apprehension. _Fuck, are we going to discuss that ‘I want to kiss you more than I want to live’ look I just had there, Geralt?_ A deep breath through his nose. “Yes, Geralt?”

“Thank you,” the Witcher didn’t look up. “For staying.”

You could have knocked Jaskier down with a feather.

* * *

Matis visited them as the sun’s light began to dim. Their host looked drawn, but positive. “Ahh, Master Witcher, it’s good to see you’re up and about,” he smiled benevolently. “I was afeared my ghost problem had contributed to the extinction of a species.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” the Witcher replied, waving Jaskier away as he tried to stick a pillow under his right arm – _it’s your sword arm, Geralt, you need to let it heal properly._ “We should be out of your way in another day.”

Jaskier hummed in disagreement. “Actually, we will be needing another two at least, two more night’s sleep in a soft bed. You can’t even grip the handle of a razor. How do you think you’re going to fare against a ghoul or a hag, hm?”

Geralt opened his mouth for a rebuttal but was interrupted as Matis raised his hands in acceptance of the request. “Of course, I insist. I will have your payment ready and your horse prepared for you on the third morning.”

“Lord Matis, your sister…” Jaskier gripped the pillow in front of him as if as a barrier to more bad news; he had been so wrapped in Geralt that he had forgotten the potential for a second casualty from that night.

“She’s fine. I feared the worst when I found her that morning. Still in shock, but she is… she is speaking to me again. I’m… not sure she will ever fully recover but is good to see a glimmer of my Grace in her eyes once more,” Matis approached the door. “I think we may leave this place behind. The loneliness and isolation can only be a breeding ground for grief; she needs to be surrounded by people, by life… so she can remember what it is to feel again.” The door opened. “I bid you good day, gentlemen.”

* * *

The rest of the evening passed unobtrusively. Jaskier pretended to engross himself in his lute, plucking and strumming snippets of different melodies and ditties, but in reality he watched Geralt intently as he inspected his armour and swords, rustled through his bag of alchemy ingredients and grumbled over the remains of his clothes, just _happy_ to see him _alive_ and moving and doing Geralt-esque things.

Eventually, the Witcher retired to bed, extinguishing the candles with a click of his fingers. He watched Jaskier shimmy down in the chair and kick his legs over the arm, his lute settled down at his side. The bard tossed a bit more, threw a pillow on the floor, and then picked it back up again; rolled left, and then right. _Uncomfortable._

“Have you been sleeping in that for the whole week?”

“Yes.”

A pause, before… “Come here.”

“What?” The bard blinked incredulously.

“Come here.”

“As in… join you. In the bed. In the same bed… that you’re currently in?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier sat up again. “So, can I just confirm--?”

“ _Jaskier._ ”

“All right, all right.” The bard hopped up, skittered over and climbed in under one of the fresh blankets, sighing in relief as he stretched his legs out and rolled his shoulders. They never usually _shared_ ; Geralt always insisted on bedding down in front of the fire if their room only had one bed, and sometimes even if there were two. Jaskier was excruciatingly aware of how _good_ Geralt smelled, radiating heat, and how very _comfortable_ the bed was, and wouldn’t it just be nice if…

* * *

Geralt was impressed at how quickly the bard fell asleep. It was like someone had flicked a lever the moment his head hit the pillow. The Witcher rested on his front, left arm curled up under his chin. He listened intently to Jaskier’s heart as it slowed to a sedate rhythm, the peace only punctuated by the odd snuffle or murmur.

The lack of light was of no consequence, and Geralt used the time to examine Jaskier’s profile. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was a fear that, should he close his eyes, Jaskier would melt away and leave behind only the empty darkness. But if Geralt could just _memorise_ every inch, then perhaps it would…

He wasn’t a fool. He knew it hadn’t been the real Jaskier in his dreams, just like it hadn’t been the real Ciri, or the real Yen, but… it had _felt_ real. The ethereal’s poison had given shape to one of the only things he feared, a fear that festered deep inside his soul; one day, his friends would die, perhaps because of his own failure, and he would still be here.

Geralt rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. He fell asleep listening to Jaskier’s heart beating next to him, and it kept him anchored to the shore for the entire night.

* * *

As promised, their payment was ready for them when they left. Jaskier couldn’t say he was sorry to leave the house behind, despite spending the final few nights more or less pressed to Geralt’s side in a _bed_. Their direction took them further north towards the city of Ellander. Geralt split his time between Roach and walking, insisting that he needed to keep moving for his own sanity if nothing else.

They stopped several times to camp in the forests and fields, but it was less _cold_ than it had been before, because Geralt insisted that Jaskier stay close. The bard had joked about the possibility of being snatched up by a gremlin in the night, but had been met with a steely, serious frown that had shut him up completely. Either way, as the winter crept closer, he was grateful for the heat that Geralt provided, even if his proximity was bittersweet and made Jaskier’s heart ache for a greater level of intimacy.

When the towers of Ellander loomed against the mountain range in the distance, Jaskier had felt relieved at the possibility of seeing civilisation again. The silent autumn nights had left him far too much time to _think_.

Geralt sent Jaskier to restock supplies in the town while he visited the Temple of Melitele to speak with the high priestess there. If anyone knew whether Geralt was healing as he should, then she would.

Following his visit and a suitable amount of chastisement from Nenneke, Geralt took a simple contract to remove some ghouls from one of the nearby gravesites and Jaskier busied himself with the local populace.

This proved to be a pretty big mistake. For Jaskier, almost a fatal one.

It had started as a harmless game of dice, and he had called over a young lady that had been sending him bedroom eyes. Beauty and luck went hand-in-hand after all. And the girl had just been so damned _beautiful._ How was he to know that she was already spoken for? By one of Hereward’s Lordlings? Just a harmless bit of flirting, introducing her to some of his latest songs and regaling her with tales only marginally exaggerated. And then one _tiny_ kiss. Maybe a hand resting a little _too_ high on her leg.

Geralt was handing over the heads to his contractor as he heard the commotion. Jaskier sprinted down the boulevard at full canter. “Geralt, we need to leave!” Shouted over his shoulder as he continued his frantic dash for the city gates. The Witcher stood in stunned silence for several moments, but his gaze was soon drawn from the retreating bard’s back - lute rattling against it in erratic time with Jaskier's gait - to the clatter of heavily armed militiamen thundering their way down the same avenue in his wake.

The Witcher looked from his trophies, to the contractor, and then the pursuit in turn. “ _Fuck.”_ Seethed through gritted teeth, he threw the heads down onto the table and summoned Roach with a sharp whistle. Obediently, she trotted up and he threw himself up into her saddle, spurring her on with a dig of his heels. She quickly caught up with the pursuit and Geralt used the opportunity to kick the lead militiaman in the head on his way through, who then went cartwheeling into a nearby market stall; the commotion bought Geralt a handful of seconds to catch Jaskier.

Reins clutched in his right hand, he dipped to the left and snagged the back of Jaskier’s tunic without slowing. The bard let out a rather undignified squeal that he would totally deny at a later date, and then latched onto Roach’s saddle for dear life as he was thrown over it on his front.

Geralt drove the mare hard until the towers of Ellander disappeared behind the treeline. He reined her in as they reached a small clearing, dismounted and yanked Jaskier from the saddle. The bard staggered as he was let go, almost falling on his rear-end, panting heavily with a hand on his chest where he had been battered by the horse’s gait.

The Witcher rounded on him. “Can you not, _for one day_ , keep your cock in your trousers, Jaskier?”

“Geralt! How dare you jump to such conclu--,” he started with outrage, caught sight of that murderous scowl, and changed tac. “In my defence, it very much was! It was an over-reaction, a huge one! If anything, I think they were just bitter at losing some coin.”

“Who?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Apparently, it was some Lord… quite important.” Jaskier was stuttering over his explanation, because he could see himself being banished back to treading his own path for this one. “ _Geralt_ , look at me. I didn’t do this on purpose! They’ll be looking for me all over Temeria; I’m too well-known, they’ll find me if I show my face in any tavern within a hundred-mile radius... there’ll be a price on my head--”

Geralt stood with his back to Jaskier. It wasn’t the loss of payment; the contract hadn’t really paid that well anyway, and it had been more of an exercise to loosen up and test his recovery. Not much had returned completely to normal yet, and the ghouls had given him a bit of a run around.

_No._

It was something else; something more possessive and irrational. And now, _now_ he was going to have to be checking every shady corner for a hired mercenary sent to extract a pound of flesh from Jaskier for a lordling’s wounded pride… when had Jaskier stopped talking?

The Witcher looked back to see hi… _the_ bard holding his hands out at his sides, palms and face upturned to the sky, eyes closed.

 _It was snowing_.

The flakes drifted lazily from the grey skies and as soon as they settled on Jaskier’s skin they melted into nothing. Still young, still not fully formed, but the first snows of winter were beginning to fall. Autumn was over. Geralt gritted his teeth, dismissed his first instinct, and then reluctantly recalled it back for further scrutiny.

“There is one place you will be safe. Inaccessible through winter. It will give hurt egos time to cool off.”

Jaskier squinted at Geralt, mind ticking over, and when the realisation dawned, he closed the distance between them and almost flung himself joyfully into Geralt’s arms. “Kaer Morhen!? Are you serious? You would take _me_ to Kaer Morhen? Oh, by the Gods… it would be a _gold min_ e!”

“Jaskier. There are _rules_ at Kaer Morhen. You must _give me your word_ that you will follow them.”

“Word, lute, _first born_ … all yours, Geralt. Oh, for the love of, come on! If we don’t get moving now, the pass will be all full of snow, right? Come on, up, up on Roach!”

With a long-suffering sigh, Geralt hauled himself into Roach’s saddle and steered her north. _Time to go home._

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

It took them a week of hard riding to reach Kaer Morhen. Every time they stopped at the side of road, Jaskier huddled close to Geralt in an attempt to stay warm; Geralt didn’t complain, and when the bard began to slow and struggle – but not complain, they were on their way to Kaer Morhen, for heaven’s sake – he pulled him up onto Roach’s back, shifting his lute under the straps of the saddlebags. The mare whinnied in annoyance but carried the both of them with little effort. And the best bit? He had to sit at the front to give Geralt easy access to the swords strapped to his back. He could surreptitiously _snuggle_ backwards every now and then when it got cold… or whenever he felt like it.

When Jaskier saw an ominous structure rise through the mist in the distance, his heart leapt into his throat and he tugged enthusiastically at Roach’s bridle… much to the irritation of the mare herself. Then the Witcher had to go and break some _seriously_ bad news about the trail they had to take. “We nicknamed it The Killer,” Geralt explained to a pale Jaskier, waiting long enough for the bard to look _seriously_ worried before adding, “don’t worry. There’s a shortcut.” 

The path wrapped its way lazily around Kaer Morhen, framed by jagged rock faces, loose stones and portentous looking trees. Jaskier would have completely missed the entrance, indicated by a fallen tree cast across two rocks. The ravine contained a small stream that Roach followed, nose down; Geralt paused now and then to explain a particular obstacle and the feat expected. Jaskier admired an obstacle Geralt called ‘the Gullet’ for some time – a leap over the gully created by two huge, mossy rocks overgrown with gnarled trees. “Geralt, what happened if you fell?”

“You broke a few bones.”

“How many times did you fall?”

Geralt urged Roach forward. “Enough times to learn how not to.”

Jaskier subconsciously leaned back against Geralt’s chest in a way that now felt extremely natural, tugging the edges of the Witcher’s cloak around himself as if he could somehow repair the broken bones of the past.

They had been spotted several hours ago and a hooded figure awaited them in the courtyard. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and Geralt dismounted to greet him. “Cutting it a bit fine there, Geralt.” 

“I’m sorry, Vesemir. It was a last-minute decision.”

“There’s enough hay and oat in the barn for Roach. Get her settled in and then head up to the guest room. Everyone else has eaten and retired. Ahh, and you must be Jaskier!” The old Witcher seemed warmer than his charge and the bard hopped down from Roach and gladly accepted the handshake waiting for him.

“An honour, Sir Vesemir. Truly, an honour.”

“Son, I’m a Witcher. Not a Knight. Drop the ‘sir’ and we’ll get on just fine.”

“Of course, of course… I have so many questions...”

“Hmm.” Vesemir cast a knowing smirk at Geralt, who _pointedly_ ignored him and led his horse away.

Jaskier followed close at Geralt’s heel, gazing up at the looming, ruined towers of Kaer Morhen, awestruck. When Geralt reached the stables, he removed Roach’s bridle and saddle and ushered her into the stall. Letho’s roan stallion brayed and kicked the door appreciatively, earning him a threatening glance from Geralt. “Don’t even think about it. He won’t mind if he leaves with a gelding.”

Jaskier could only laugh.

* * *

“Geralt, I had no idea you were the quintessential princess in the tower,” Jaskier huffed as they ascended what felt like the hundredth flight of stairs. “Tell me, did you have lots of offers from princes during your time here, or…?”

The Witcher didn’t answer but paused once again to let Jaskier catch up. As Geralt’s guest, Jaskier was his responsibility, and would be staying under his watchful eye; there were some Witcher secrets that did not belong in a ballad.

Jaskier collapsed face down on the red chaise lounge by the balcony windows when they first arrived. As his breath returned, he rolled onto his back to admire the décor. “I am… not sure what time period we’re meant to be in, but this is a truly stunning room, Geralt.” Tapestries, paintings, an eclectic mix of different furniture – cabinets, tables, some wardrobes – coats of arms in various states of repair, and _that bed_. It was huge. Bigger than Jaskier had seen since he had left his own stately home back in… urgh, put that out of his mind.

“I know if I tell you to not go exploring tomorrow that you will just ignore me,” Geralt dropped his saddlebags onto a nearby dressing table. “Just… be careful. This castle has been falling down for years, and there has been no one to repair it.”

“And where will you be?”

“I told you, Jaskier. There are rules at Kaer Morhen.”

* * *

They rose at daybreak.

“Expecting trouble?” Jaskier watched Geralt pull on his armour; it hadn’t been repaired from the ethereal attack and the punctures in the right epaulette were a gut-wrenching reminder for Jaskier of just how difficult those five days had been, and just how close it had all been to the end.. 

“Drills.” Geralt offered, grabbing his steel sword as he exited into the stairwell. Jaskier followed Geralt down the winding stairs to the open courtyard. The sun cast weak rays through the grey clouds, but it was warmer than the night before and Jaskier practically exploded with joy as he spotted not one, not two, not three… but _four_ more Witchers warming up. “Geralt!” It was practically a squeak as Jaskier bounced down the stairs, not sure who to speak with first.

“Jaskier.”

“Yes, yes… I know. _There are rules at Kaer Morhen._ ” Jaskier dropped his voice and imitated those gravelly tones, before sidling over to sit on the wall next to Vesemir.

“Ha! Geralt, he has you down.” Eskel smirked and winked at the white-haired Witcher.

Vesemir issued his instructions. “Eskel, you’re with Lambert. Geralt, with our guest Letho. Swords and footwork; no signs.”

Jaskier took his time studying each Witcher in turn. Eskel was as tall as Geralt, but with dark hair and a disfiguring scar across his cheek that detracted substantially from what would otherwise have been an extremely handsome visage; Lambert was marginally shorter, with receding brown hair and lips that looked like they twisted more naturally into a sneer than a smile, but still retained a roguish level of handsome… and then there was Letho. Eyes closer to those of a snake than a cat; his head shaven, huge arms revealed by his sleeveless jerkin and the laugh he emitted as low as rumbling thunder. “Good to see you again, white wolf. Losing your edge, are you?” He indicated the savaged epaulette with the tip of his blade.

“Hmm. We’ll see.” And Geralt launched with a flawless spin, the hilt of his blade turning over his wrist and back into his hand in what would have been a vicious beheading if Letho hadn't met it with an effective parry. They moved impossibly fast. Jaskier had never seen a swordsman last more than thirty seconds against Geralt, but Letho sent him packing with parries and counters that beggared belief.

Jaskier watched in awe as Geralt gradually gained the upper hand, forcing Letho onto his backfoot until the latter raised his free hand in the gesture of a rapid sign. The resulting telekinetic blast smashed into Geralt’s chest and sent him careening across the courtyard into a pile of discarded target dummies.

“Cheat!” Jaskier hopped to his feet as he watched Geralt extract himself, pausing long enough to be relieved, before rounding on Letho again. “Scoundrel! The man said no signs. Unfair!” Letho looked at Jaskier with a mixture of confusion and irritation, and Geralt rubbed a hand over his face to cover the scowl.

Vesemir quirked his brow. “The walls, Letho.” The Viper growled in irritation, but did not argue with his senior, casting his sword to the floor and sprinting off towards a wooden scaffold at the far edge of the courtyard. “You too, Geralt. If you don’t beat him, I’ll have you running it until sundown.”

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open and he watched the white-haired Witcher sprint after his companion without question. “What… but… why? He fought honourably…” 

“Because life _isn’t_ fair. And Geralt shouldn’t have been caught off guard.” 

They sat in silence for some time. Jaskier caught sight of Geralt now and then, rather happy to see him leaving the larger and less nimble Letho in his wake. He realised suddenly that Vesemir had an ulterior motive for sending Geralt as well, because it was only Geralt that the old man was watching.

“How bad was it?” Vesemir spoke quietly.

“How bad was…?”

“The ethereal. The smell is still on him. In his blood.”

Jaskier looked at the floor of the courtyard. “It was close.”

“Hmm. He is lucky then.”

“Yes, I thought for a moment that he was going to die, he was lucky that elf hadn’t--.”

“No, Jaskier. He is lucky to have you.”

Jaskier sat in stunned silence for a moment, quite unused to such frank openness from one of the Witcher-ilk. “I don’t think he sees it that way.”

“He does.” Vesemir turned his eyes to Eskel and Lambert, inspecting their footwork with a critical eye. No Witcher ever got too old for schooling. “How much has he told you about his time here?”

“Very little.”

“Hmm. You were a professor of Oxenfurt university, were you not?”

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open. “How did you--?”

Vesemir gave him a knowing smile. “Perhaps our library will be of interest to you during your stay here,” the old Witcher rose to his feet, having spotted something in Eskel’s form that he didn’t like. “The afternoons are full of errands and chores. As a guest, you will not be expected to partake… Eskel, stop slacking off. You’re a disgrace.”

* * *

The next few days followed the same domestic pattern. Mornings were occupied by drills and Jaskier never tired of watching the Witchers train. He learned quickly their relative strengths and weaknesses. Lambert was quick and agile with a sword; Eskel was a master of signs; Letho was an alchemical genius and Geralt was a lethal mix of all three. 

At first, the others were wary of Jaskier and gave him a wide berth, but they began to expect and then enjoy his company when it became clear how much trust and affection Geralt harboured for the bard. The light guiding touches as they moved around the castle, glances over the courtyard between bouts of training to make sure he was still there, and the way he kept Jaskier close in the evening. The White Wolf had decided to expand the pack and Jaskier was to be accepted.

In the second week, Eskel spoke to Jaskier about the Witcher’s magic and showed him the Circle of Elements, patiently explaining how Witchers would come here to learn their signs and that he had been one of the last. The sadness had permeated the area and Jaskier rested his hand against the cold, inert stones with reverence. He knew about the massacre; the moat was filled with the bones of those that had died and Kaer Morhen was, by every sense of the word, a ruin. The remaining members of the school had only survived because they had been away from home at the time. _People were cruel._ “We bring the medallions here… when we find ‘em. Not sure why.” As they walked back Eskel lightened the mood and joyfully regaled Jaskier with a story involving himself and Geralt as young boys, a huge forest bumblebee, some string and a jug. It was making it into a ballad. 

The others contributed in their own way. Letho explained some of the core potions and decoctions in a Witcher’s arsenal, and Lambert finally showed Jaskier how to use a whetstone. During the afternoons, while Geralt and the others were out hunting for dinner and gathering firewood from the surrounding countryside, Jaskier read the huge dusty volumes in the library under Vesemir’s supervision. He finally learned the difference between a kikimore and an endrega but was stopped before he could find out too much about the mutations. He didn’t push his luck.

It was the evenings that Jaskier truly lived for.

They drank, ate and _laughed_. It shattered the emotionless Witcher archetype so thoroughly that Jaskier wished he could record the image and show it to every noble and peasant from here to the southern kingdoms. Lambert was the best at getting Geralt to crack a smile; apparently his Vesemir impression – the one he pulled out only once the old Witcher had gone to bed – was a staple, but it never got old. “The life of a Witcher isn’t all money and women, gentlemen… it is labour…”

“Lambert, you jack ass…” Geralt laughed into his stein and Jaskier’s face _hurt_ from the size of his own grin. Witchers drunk _full steins of vodka_ as if they were a light sherry. No wonder Geralt never seemed remotely affected by the watered-down swill that passed for beer on their travels.

When it became clear that he would die before he kept up with the Witchers’ drinking stamina, Jaskier took a different approach and devoted himself to the games of gwent and dice with gusto; Lambert lost repeatedly and eventually demanded that Jaskier teach him some of these monstrous plays that stripped him of his gold. The bard obliged. As the night grew old, Jaskier and Geralt always headed upstairs together. Sometimes Jaskier essentially carried the drunken idiot and he had the absolute _cheek_ to wake up every morning without a hangover.

“Jaskier!” Letho boomed at him across the table one night, “That song… you know the one… the one about Geralt… I want to hear it.”

“Letho… there are so many songs about Geralt…” Lambert hiccuped into his drink. “Isn’t there that one… about your…” The Witcher wriggled his eyebrows and Eskel choked on a mouthful of vodka, snorting with laughter.

“No… no… that’s not the one… _you know_ , with the elves… and the shelves…” Letho stared into the bottom of his empty drink.

Lambert topped him up. “Hmm. What is it… toss off your Witcher? No… that doesn’t sound right...” 

“Fuck, I wouldn’t say no on occasion… might be worth more ‘n the gold...”

“Gentlemen, allow me,” Jaskier grabbed his lute from where it had been all but forgotten at his side. “My humble contribution to the immortalisation of your heroism and valour.” He strummed energetically, tweaked a tuning peg and rose to stand on his seat, foot braced on the edge of the table. This was to be the greatest rendition of ‘Toss a coin to your Witcher’ there ever would be. Within the very halls of Kaer Morhen, before the noblest and most deserving of audiences.

He only made it to the first chorus before he didn’t need to sing it anymore. His own melodic tones drowned out by the Witchers as they rose from their seats and bellowed the words to the ceiling, steins raised in toast. As their voices and the melody of the lute filled the grand hall, Jaskier’s eyes fell to Geralt at the far end of the table. He wasn’t singing, but while the others were raucously distracted, he was watching Jaskier with a soft expression that made his amber eyes shine with affection. The Witcher raised his stein in salute before knocking it back.

_It had to be the vodka, right?_

* * *

One afternoon, Jaskier did what Geralt had warned him against. Without the supervision of Vesemir – the old Witcher had fallen asleep in the library – he decided to wander the halls of Kaer Morhen. It was the laboratory he was looking for. The location where those famous mutations took place. _The intrigue was just too much to ignore._ It didn’t take long for him to find it.

It had been the main target of the fanatics and the evidence was clear. It was a blackened husk. The floorboards creaked under his feet, and he nudged a broken vial with his foot. The harnesses and stretchers, with their metal and leather straps were shattered against the walls; books had been torn and shredded, their remains scattered like fallen autumn leaves. The room was desolate and sense of wonder he had expected was absent. Jaskier could feel the horror and the pain leaching from the very stone and he decided suddenly that he could be there no longer.

The image of a younger, more vulnerable Geralt strapped to one of those boards, his hair bleaching white with the stress of the mutation, was too much.

But the laboratory wasn’t ready to let him go just yet.

As he stepped back towards the exit, the ancient floorboards beneath him buckled and shattered. With a yelp of fear, he fell. But not too far. _Just far enough_. The landing knocked the wind out of him, and his knees and hands scraped on the gravelly floor. “Fff--..” He looked upwards, towards the light, swearing loudly as he realised there was no way in hell he was going to be able to climb out by himself.

He called out until he was hoarse, but no one came. 

* * *

When Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen with a string of pheasants tossed over his shoulder, Jaskier’s absence from the courtyard was _poignant._ “Vesemir…” The question went unasked and the old Witcher couldn’t offer anything but a confused glance over his shoulder. Jaskier wasn’t in their shared room, or in the library, and the more _absent_ the bard became, the more frantically Geralt searched. Kaer Morhen was a death trap for the uninitiated. Eventually, he caught a scent; it was a mixture of pain, fear and… “Jaskier.” The Witcher followed the trail down into the laboratory and called again. 

His reply was a quiet snuffle, and then a weary… “Geralt?” Then louder. “Geralt! I’m down here… I… I fell.” The bard’s voice was strained.

Geralt approached the hole in the floor and looked down at the rather sorry heap of bard at the bottom. Jaskier was happy to see an acceptable level of anxiety in the lines of his face, but it quickly vanished into chagrin when Geralt realised Jaskier was still very much alive. “I warned you, there are r--.”

“I know, I know. Just come and get me out of here, will you? I’ve been down here for bloody hours.”

With the athletic prowess of his kind, Geralt made his way down into the crevice that Jaskier had made in the laboratory floor. He crouched before the bard and turned his palms over, inspecting his knees with a furrowed brow. “Is anything broken?"

“No, I don’t think so…”

“Wrap your arms around my shoulders.” Geralt turned and pulled Jaskier onto his back, climbing back up with the ease and grace of a cat ascending a garden wall, and Jaskier just felt even more foolish than before.

When they returned to their room, Geralt commanded Jaskier to sit and filled a basin of water. “Why did you go down there?”

“I wanted to see, Geralt.”

“See what?”

“Where they… where they did…”

“Where they made me.”

“Yes.”

“You are foolish. What if you had hit your head? Fallen further?”Geralt knelt down at Jaskier’s feet, and used a linen towel to remove the gravel from the grazes on his palms. “What did you expect to find there, Jaskier?”

“Not… not that. I could feel the misery. It was like I could hear the screaming… like the ghosts were trapped there for an eternity. I… I can’t believe they did that to _children._ In a laboratory. That story has no place in a ballad, Geralt… but people should remember and respect your sacrifice.”

“It was a necessary process,” Geralt finished cleaning Jaskier’s palms and reviewed his knees. No permanent damage. “The Trial made efficient soldiers. We were nothing; the lost and forgotten, products of the law of surprise, and it turned us into something useful. You can only hunt monsters properly if you become one yourself.”

“ _No._ ” Jaskier pulled his hands away and took Geralt by the chin, “You cannot tell me that lie anymore, Witcher. And I will not allow you to tell it to yourself any longer. Stop _punishing_ yourself for something you had no control over.”

Geralt stared at Jaskier for some time. He looked pensive. “Why do you stay with me, Jaskier?”

“You know why.” _And it’s not about the songs anymore._

“Mmm,” Geralt stood and disposed of the water and linen. “I… I am glad… that you stay.” His lips quirked into a smile and Jaskier’s heart swelled in his chest. “Get some sleep. No more wandering. I’ll show you the castle myself tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Geralt. That would be… nice.”

* * *

“Jaskier, wake up.”

“Geralt, what… it’s still _night-time_ …”

“Only for another thirty minutes. I want to show you something.”

Reluctantly, Jaskier allowed himself to be drawn from the warm blankets of the bed and pulled on some clothes. Geralt insisted he needed a coat and the bard didn’t argue. He followed the Witcher through the sleepy halls of Kaer Morhen to _yet another flight of stairs who built this castle what the hell._ With a sigh of resignation, Jaskier started the climb.

Surprisingly, they barely went up a handful of feet before Geralt made Jaskier wrap his arms around his neck for the second time in twenty-four hours. _He could get used to this kind of service._ “Alright, now I’m awake, what are you doing?”

“Hold on, and don’t look down.”

“Geralt, what are you… oh my giddy aunt, _what are you doing?_ ”

The Witcher was still barefoot and in only a shirt, but he swung out of the narrow window with Jaskier on his back as if he were simply climbing a ladder and wasn’t several hundred feet up, clinging to the side of a crumbling tower. Jaskier held his breath as Geralt began to climb, praying to any God that would listen that Kaer Morhen’s south-facing turret didn’t choose this moment to shed some more stone.

He pulled them up onto the tiled roof; Geralt trod carefully until they reached a flattened alcove. Probably once a lookout post, it now held only traces of bird’s nests and the pedestrian exit had long since collapsed on itself. They sat next to each other as the night sky began to retreat. 

“What did you want to show me? There are easier ways to--.”

Jaskier was hushed by one finger over his lips, while the other hand pointed to the east. The sight took his breath away. The sun erupted over the horizon with a sudden and unapologetic splendour; a warm palette of oranges, yellows and reds. Every tree, mossy outcrop and lake surface was highlighted in brilliant gold. “Geralt, it’s… it’s beautiful.”

“When I was a boy, I came here quite a lot. Climbed up the outside so that none of the instructors would see me,” he spoke softly, his eyes fixated on the horizon. “When it got difficult, when the mutations hurt and life seemed bleak, I came here to be reminded why… why it was all necessary. Why I had to keep fighting on.” He tore his gaze away and looked at Jaskier. “I’m not a poet, Jaskier. I couldn’t carry a tune if you paid me all the gold in the world, so I wasn’t sure how else to show you…”

“Show me...?”

“When I feel like I have nothing… that I _am_ nothing, you are my sunrise.”

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

Since the bard had fallen in the laboratory, Geralt pretty much refused to leave his side. As promised, the Witcher took him to the main areas of the castle, expanding on their tour with stories and anecdotes of his own. Instructors, young Witchers… it all went unsaid that they had perished in the massacre, but the rest of the castle didn’t hold the same haunting misery as the laboratory. Somehow, Geralt brought life into those empty halls.

Yet... not even the secrets and heroic deeds of the School of Wolf could distract Jaskier from his Witcher now. 

Nothing more had been said on that rooftop. For once, Jaskier couldn’t think of the right words. He had taken one of Geralt’s hands in his, and they had sat together until the sun had emerged completely above the treeline, happy simply to bask in Geralt’s declaration. When they turned up for breakfast that morning most of their companions were none the wiser, but Jaskier saw Vesemir study them closely, his head tilted to the side. 

After training, Geralt sat in the west hall with Jaskier and tested his knowledge.

“This one?”

“Swallow, good for stamina and vitality.”

“This?”

“Cat, let’s you see more clearly in the dark.”

“Hmm. And this?”

“Blizzard, reflexes.”

“And what sign do you need to trap a wraith?”

“Yrden. Causes a small amount of damage, but mostly used to keep them in corporeal form.”

“I am impressed, Jaskier.” 

“Wait until I polish your sword like Lambert showed me.”

Much to Jaskier’s amusement, Geralt nearly dropped the potions he had scooped off the table in his haste to stare at him, eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline.

“Prude.”

“Jaskier…”

“Geralt, it’s fine. Private joke. Just you and I.”

Jaskier watched as his Witcher packed up the rest of the books they had brought down with them and rose to his feet. “Eskel and I are going to get tonight’s food. Vesemir wants to show you some of our elven literature, he’s rather proud of it…”

“Of course, be safe.” Jaskier rose and then hesitated. Despite the overwhelming urge to kiss Geralt, despite the Witcher’s rooftop declaration, there was still a small divide to overcome. _Don’t want to ruin it._ Having waited this long, Jaskier could wait a little longer for Geralt to close that last gap, even though he had never wanted something more earnestly in his entire life. For now, he settled for running his fingers lightly over the hand that grasped the bag strap, and Geralt offered a soft smile before departing.

* * *

“You know, Jaskier… how do you do it?”

“Letho?”

“Put up with that miserable git all the time. I’ve never known a Witcher to have a stick shoved so far up--.”

“And you’re a regular prince charming, aren’t you, Letho?” Lambert threw the pheasant bone he had been munching on down onto the plate. 

“Fucking right. No complaints from your mother, Lambert.”

“Fuck you… I don’t even know who my mother is.”

“Ha! Me either, brother!” The two Witchers toasted with boisterous laughter. 

“I… Witcher humour just escapes me,” Jaskier said quietly to Vesemir.

“Ahh, you get used to it.” 

“Geralt has an awfully dry sense of humour, usually at my expense.”

“The more he loves something, the wickeder he tends to be.”

“Well, then I am truly honoured…”

Geralt had been in the stables giving Roach a little bit of attention; Jaskier had located him earlier in the evening but, upon hearing him speaking softly to his mare, had left them to their alone time. The two shared a special bond and Jaskier knew better than to interrupt their conversations. He entered the hall now and took the chair between Vesemir and Jaskier.

Waving away the vodka, he helped himself to a mouthful of beer, a hunk of bread and a plate full of venison. The rest of the evening was occupied with a couple of games of gwent with Lambert, and Jaskier half-listened to the quiet conversation between Vesemir and Geralt as he played, catching only snippets here and there - _Nilfgaardians looking a bit too far north; huge ghoul problem; Scoia’tael movements_. He was painfully aware that Geralt’s eyes kept flickering across to him, only returning to Vesemir out of veneration. As a result of this split attention, Jaskier lost quite a lot of his initial earnings from earlier in their stay.

“Bah! You’re letting me win, bard. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

Jaskier stretched his arms above his head, forcing a yawn. “Ah, I’m too tired to give you a good game. I think I’ll retire for tonight. Gentlemen, I bid you good evening.”

Vesemir watched Jaskier take his leave, waiting for the bard to disappear through the huge banquet room doors before he looked at his charge. Geralt was still looking at the door, the space where Jaskier _had_ been, his expression one of pure longing mixed with indecision.

“Geralt. Life is too short.”

“That’s rich coming from a four hundred year old Witcher.”

“No need for lip. And that’s a rather high guess.”

“Sorry, Vesemir…”

“What stays your hand?”

“I might get him killed.”

“Mmhm,” the old Witcher leaned back in his chair, “don’t you think he knows the risks by now?”

“Yes. I’ve tried to push him away, but he keeps coming back.”

“Then I think he has made his decision. You must make yours. However, it looks to me like neither of you is entirely whole without the other."

“Hmm.”

The old Witcher grunted impatiently. “Geralt, you’re a fucking idiot, why are you still sitting here? Follow your bard.”

Geralt looked at his mentor, eyes shifting in decision. He knocked back the remainder of his beer - “Good night, Vesemir” – and he followed _his_ bard out of the dining room and pursued him up the stairs into their solitary tower room.

Vesemir harrumphed. “Love is wasted on the young.”

* * *

By the time Jaskier had reached the top, he was red-faced and rather breathless – _trust Geralt to have his winter quarters basically in the fucking sky_ – and he had to pause at the threshold to gather himself before setting about his evening routine.

It had been fairly effortless for Geralt to catch up, bare feet skipping every other step to ascend in his wake. Jaskier hadn’t expected him and the hand that grabbed the back of his collar elicited a startled yelp.

Shock faded to awe as his fingers gripped into Geralt’s shirt and his mouth was consumed in one of the fiercest kisses he’d ever had the pleasure of receiving. Geralt tasted of beer and venison, but most importantly, he tasted of _Geralt._ A deep, heady musk that consumed taste and scent until Jaskier felt dizzy from it. He staggered back as he was pushed, his rear end finding one of the antique cabinets that made up the haphazard mix of Kaer Morhen’s bedroom furnishings.

He would have been happy to drown there and then, but Geralt broke away in favour of lacing his jaw and neck with hungry, consuming kisses that sent shivers the full length of Jaskier’s spine. Calloused hands were impossibly gentle in their exploration under his shirt, fingers dipping below his waistband at the small of his back. “Geralt… Geralt, wait… _ah, fuck…_ ” That one was going to leave a bruise.

Geralt stopped, panting heavily against Jaskier’s shoulder, before tilting his head in what could only be described as a possessive nuzzle beneath Jaskier’s ear. His bard, now thoroughly marked as his, pushed him gently back with two palms on his chest. They stared at each other for some time; Geralt respectful of Jaskier’s request to stop, but barely able to keep himself away.

“Geralt of Rivia, if you think my first time with you is going to be up against a hundred-year-old clothes chest, you are seriously mistaken… I have _standards_ , you know.”

The Witcher raised both eyebrows in wry amusement, lips quirked at the corners. “Standards?”

“Yes, standards.” His heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest, and Jaskier really couldn’t _quite_ believe this was happening. “Like, maybe a bed, and, some… actual… nudity.” He waved his hand in Geralt’s general direction.

“Hmm.” Geralt moved away, pulling his shirt over his head and casting it onto the floor. He buried a fist in the front of Jaskier’s tunic and hauled him away from the cabinet and onto the bed. Jaskier wasn’t quite used to being manhandled quite this much in the bedroom but didn’t protest as he was divested of both tunic and undershirt, and needed no additional motivation to sprawl out on his back. How could he argue with that fire in Geralt’s eyes?

The kisses resumed at a far more torturous rate, leaving a trail of bliss as they travelled down Jaskier’s throat and collarbone. His fingers carded their way through Geralt’s hair when they were unable to reach the plains of his back, only to grip tightly when those _sordidly_ skilled lips captured a nipple; teeth and tongue merciless as they worked to extract a moan from deep in Jaskier’s chest.

“ _Fuck_ , Geralt… did you really have to be a fighter, _and_ a lover…? That… that hardly seems fair.” He was rewarded with a low rumbling laugh as that white-maned head disappeared from his periphery. His breath hitched as Geralt unlaced his breeches and lifted his hips, pulling them away to continue his exploration. He teased _relentlessly_ ; lips and teeth roamed his thighs and his hips but refused to so much as acknowledge Jaskier’s straining need _._ “Geralt, _please…_ ” A pitiful whimper.

“Hmm. I can’t hear you Jaskier,” Geralt stopped, his breath betrayed that his mouth was torturously close, and his thumbs drew lazy circles on the inside of Jaskier’s hips.

Jaskier growled through gritted teeth. “I want your god-damned mouth on me. _Now. Now_ , Geralt.” The lengthy pause that followed built the pressure in the pit of his stomach to intolerable levels. “ _Please_.”

The heat of Geralt’s mouth threatened to ruin Jaskier almost instantly; his tongue sliding languorously beneath the tip, before allowing it to rub across the back of his throat. If the Witcher didn’t have him so artfully pinned the bed, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from rolling his hips in complete abandon. It was _quick_ . Embarrassingly, _shockingly_ quick, and Jaskier would make damn well sure no one ever found out, or his reputation would be ruined. When the euphoria subsided to a manageable volume, he lifted his head from the bed to look down at Geralt. 

_And what a fucking sight it was._

The Witcher’s lips were swollen and parted, his pupils were blown wide, that sharp jawline was accentuated by the tousled white mane that Jaskier had gripped so desperately mere seconds earlier. He looked positively feral and it stole what remained of Jaskier’s breath away. “Come here,” he managed to hook a hand under Geralt’s chin and draw him up. His wolf rose obediently from his knees, lying to the left of Jaskier’s prone form and accepting the kiss pressed to his mouth with a grateful huff. Geralt ground himself against Jaskier’s thigh more wantonly than the bard could have ever believed him capable, reminding him unnecessarily that he was still wanting.

“In my bag, I’ve got the chamomile mixture, you know the…” Geralt didn’t need telling twice, or even the full instruction, and withdrew from the bed for barely thirty seconds; it was both amusing and pleasing that he knew what pocket it was in. Jaskier took the bottle as it was pushed to his palm, his other hand nudged at the waistband of Geralt’s trousers. “Off. I’m feeling very under-dressed.” The absence of his Witcher’s warmth was a small price to pay for the sight that followed; his naked form framed in the moonlight spilling through the balcony windows, every hard line and curve accentuated in silvery white. _And all mine_. Jaskier emptied the entire contents of the bottle onto his hand and beckoned his lover back.

Geralt returned to Jaskier’s waiting palm and rumbled his appreciation as that lubricated hand slid down the length of his cock. “Mmph, Jaskier, that…”

The bard grinned and moved his other hand up over the plains of Geralt’s torso, until he reached the back of his neck and pulled him close for another kiss. Two legs wrapped themselves around Geralt’s waist insistently. “I want you inside me, Geralt. And I want to _see_ you.” And so Geralt watched his bard’s eyes as he rolled his hips forward; he watched as Jaskier’s pupils blew wide when he found that sweet spot inside him, making him keen and dig his fingernails into Geralt’s shoulders. 

Time ceased to become of consequence as the two lovers remained wrapped in each other until the early hours of the morning. Geralt was voracious and possessive, but somehow gentle and attentive at the same time, and Jaskier allowed himself – perhaps selfishly – to be carried away by those ministrations until he was wrecked beyond comprehension. He fell asleep plastered to Geralt’s side, the Witcher’s hand stroking lazy circles on the thigh draped across his hips. If there was such a thing as a private heaven, then Jaskier’s was in Geralt of Rivia’s bed in the Witcher castle of Kaer Morhen.

* * *

The next morning _sore_ wasn’t quite the word for it. Jaskier had never felt so thoroughly, amazingly _used_ in all his life. Whoever added stamina to the list of Witcher mutations deserved a fucking commendation. 

“Aren’t you going to get up for drills?” It was still dark outside, but Jaskier’s body clock had become accustomed to the routines of the castle.

“Mmm.. I’ll pretend I’m unwell.”

“Really? And you think Vesemir will buy that even for a second? He had us figured out the moment we stepped through the gate…

“The old man always was a shrewd bastard.”

“And besides, Geralt… _Kaer Morhen has rules._ ”

He received a low chuckle and a nip on the shoulder for his cheek.

Geralt rose with the sun and the bard wasted no time in sidling into the big warm patch he left behind. “Don’t sleep the day away, Jaskier,” The Witcher returned only briefly to nuzzle a kiss into Jaskier’s hair, before departing for his day’s labour. “Or I’ll send Letho up to get you.”

It was enough of a threat. Having spent so many weeks with Letho now, Jaskier was under no illusion the giant Witcher would take great pleasure in hauling him out of bed and dumping him into an ice-cold bath. He dragged himself lethargically from under the blankets and reluctantly cleaned off the evidence from the previous night’s exertions, _except for those damn bruises._ “For fuck’s sake, Geralt…” His neck and shoulders were dappled with _too much_ evidence of Geralt’s passion and the bard was left to tip out his entire pack in search of a tunic with a high enough collar to cover it. 

The morning’s training session was brisk and brutal. Geralt, now fully healed, destroyed both Eskel and Letho in one-on-one combat and gave Lambert a black eye when Vesemir had swapped to unarmed drills. The White Wolf was back on form and it was truly glorious to see. 

The snow was beginning to clear and Jaskier could tell that Geralt was growing restless. He spent most of his day prowling the wilderness outside Kaer Morhen, and in the evenings he poured over maps and plotted their next destination.

When the time came, Jaskier felt his heart wrench at the thought of leaving the castle, but the sight of Roach fully packed and Geralt armed, fit and ready was enough to renew the adventure in his heart. A brief exchange with the four Witchers to bid his farewells and he climbed into Roach’s saddle behind Geralt.

The Witcher spurred the mare on and they left Kaer Morhen to fade into the mists for another year. The road would be full of darkness and monsters, but all would be well. 

For the Witcher had his Bard.

* * *

_For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,  
Who for thyself art so unprovident.  
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,  
But that thou none lovest is most evident;  
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate  
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.  
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate  
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.  
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!  
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?  
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,  
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:  
Make thee another self, for love of me,  
That beauty still may live in thine or thee._

Sonnet X, William Shakespeare

* * *


End file.
